I remember when you curled your body into mine
and told me my writing was too complicated
before kissing me on the mouth.
You said people didn't want
to read metaphors and fancy words.
That the best things in life
were simple.

(but I was starving for affection and wanted to carve my love bloodily across the frail sky until the wounds sang so loudly with pain that even you could not ignore their screams)

I remember when I sat in an empty parking lot at 4 am
because I was too drunk to stand
but not drunk enough to forgive your lips on hers.
I asked you for an explanation
and you told me it was
a simple mistake.
Simple.

(later you told me that the alcohol in your veins had seized you by the hair and spun you around until you saw nothing but her and that I had suddenly dissolved into nothing, as if a person could fade into darkness just because another shone brighter)

I remember when you stopped replying to my texts
as soon as I asked
when I could see you again.
It didn't make sense
but you'd just forgotten to reply, you said.
The explanation was always
so simple.

(turns out the waves of your own emotion had overwhelmed you and you were suffocating, drowning, until your mind seemed so light and your heart so heavy that you were coughing for air and I was not good enough for you to waste those precious gasping breaths on)

Seven months later
I asked you if you
remembered any of this.
You said no,
so I left you.
You were right.

It was that simple.