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And now these sheets
that I scrubbed so meticulously,
the memories bleeding out of the cracks in my fingers
to stain the water and fabric one accusing color
smell once again of something alien,
slightly musty, and so definitely boy.
I remind myself he wasn't here again.
This smell is different,
means friendship, not betrayal.
The sweatshirt left by accident on my chair
was placed there quietly,
not flung across the room in lust.
The warm depression near where my head now rests
is from an elbow, propping up a boy
interested in a movie, and nothing else.
I remind myself the small creases in the room
are pockets for new memories.
That tomorrow I won't wake up to a lie
wrapped in arms that will never hold me again.