We got a new couch.
The red one is gone, replaced with a tan one covered in my new dog’s hair.
You never met her.
The kitchen table is different. You have not cooked at this one.
My hair has grown out. It has been dyed, cut, and stripped of you.
We have changed rooms. I am no longer in the room that haunts me.
Everything is different. Even the dog you knew is dead. Cancer.
So why does my skin feel your lingering touch?
It is like a scar, something that never goes away.
Like a wine stain on a red dress or the makeup stains on a pillowcase.
I have taken many showers. I have taken many baths.
I have scrubbed my skin numb, but your fingerprints are still there.
You traced my body.
I said no.
I begged no.
I have scars in the shape of your fingertips.
I was 14. Too young, too fresh.
The question is why?
I am scared of you.
I have not seen you in three years.
Yet I never deleted our pictures.
I have a polaroid of you somewhere, proof that you were there.
I hate you, in fact I despise you. You are the only one I loathe.
Everything has changed, yet when I go to the grocery store I duck when I see someone with your hair.
Any trace of your figure and I forget how to breathe.
You come to me in my nightmares.
I awake in sweat just to feel your presence again.
You have forgotten about me. You probably call me crazy to your friends.
But you are everywhere. Everything has changed. Everything has changed.
You stay the same.