Splinter

I saw that I wouldn't share my poetry, or any writing at all, unless it was happy, or at least hopeful to me. I open a white page, I contemplate happiness. My mind automatically, against my will goes to some night so so many years ago, when I was laughing in your bed, laying to your left (in the bird's eye view of my memory). You were trying to sleep, asked me, agitated, what I was laughing at. It made me laugh more, it made you laugh a little. I was elated to be in your presence and sleeping next to you. I know, I know, I know I've glorified these recollections, maybe you would be horrified by my reflections. I try to recall a happiness more recent, more real, that made more sense, it seems cloudy, good, but foggy. How clarion, how crisp and clean, every moment spent with you. Now I'm alone, the bed is big and cold and dark, and my breath isn't rhythmic like it used to be, unsteady. You're not alone, and some nights, most nights I lie here embarrassed that it bothers me. It shouldn't bother me. But you're a splinter I want nothing more than a second chance in pulling out, cause you split in half, we both know that, the piece in me still stings. It's embarrassing, so embarrassing. I decided last night for the thousandths time that it would be easier to forget, so I tried. I woke up and drove to work and the song on the radio reminded me of you, always had, but I was only listening to the radio to forget you. I walked into work and the first song I remember hearing, filling all the air was "always something there to remind me". I thought to myself yet again, how much you'd love this station, that someone else has put on, left on. I thought at least that song "gonna use my fingers, gonna use my imagination" wasn't on. Of course it began to play. Brass in Pocket by The Pretenders. You loved that song. I hadn't even seen Lost in Translation yet. God, I love writing about you, when is this going to change? When will I change? I'm deformed and distorted and defeated from this world. You're pristine, playful, prim, perfect. I can't face the mirror, you're the only reflection I can stand. Why is that?