“I used to spend a lot of time thinking about you, thinking about me, thinking about us. You used to be my pride – I would talk about you a lot. Really, I think I talked about you more than I should have. Hours on end, I would talk about your firm shoulders and stiff lips and your gentle eyes. When they darken, I would cry myself to sleep and when you broke into a smile, I felt like the happiest person in the world.

But now, none of it feels real. You’re not real anymore, not to me. My fingers feel more at home touching cold air than when it is twisted against yours, and my eyes no longer search for your firm back. Sometimes, it feels like everything was just a recollection from some chick flick – but I don’t even like chick flicks. I think about every warm embrace – I remember how my body feels so warm, hidden under warm arms and I think about every kiss – stolen between the moments where it was just us.

I try to talk about you sometimes. I bring you up in these hushed whispers, but all I get are bored silences and tired looks. Sometimes you feel like a giant, dirty secret – or maybe the dirty secret are these lingering attachments. They are meant to be stashed away like that Nostradamus book I stole from the last drawer. Sometimes, you’re just a mere thought that floats by.

You’re just a mere firefly – or maybe even a shooting star. I