Just a waste of time

Obsession is going through your Facebook friends at 2am,

Wondering which ones you slept with

( the number is twelve. I think he said twelve,

Was that including me? Was I thirteen?)

And wondering if it was just the pretty ones.

I guess you can do a lot in 10 years.

Obsession is being turned on by you

And being confused when you touch me and then shoot me down.

Wondering if it's on purpose

Or if you're accidentally gently fucking with my head.

Obsession is where I keep you in my sketch pad.

That picture you sent to me on snap chat

That you have no idea that I saved

( don't worry, it's just your face)

That I touch instead of the real thing.

Studying the microscopic patterns in your irises

And the crop circles in your beard,

Knowing I will never get the details right.

It's difficult to erase you, even there.

Obsession is feeling like I'm in the most beautiful moment ever

Sitting next to you in your sisters car

As we're on our way to a show that your last fuck buddy is throwing.

I want to parade around like the better replacement.

I want to show you off,

I want everyone to know.

But instead I sit on a couch half the night drinking my alcoholic snapple.

Laughing with some of your friends that I wish were my friends.

Being hit on by a 40 year old rapper,

But not by you, not where everyone can see.
Not so I ruin your game or make people start asking questions.

In retrospect I hope I acted normal enough.

Obsession is embarrassing myself over and over.

It's wanting to read your journals
To know what you think about me,
Because you don't say
And you never tell me I'm pretty.
It's when my eyes slide over to your phone
And I remembered when you said you delete all your messages and don't save nudes
I just want to know if that's true.

It's in the small day to day pains between texts that grow
Farther and Farther
Apart.
It's how you don't know that I know 
the way you talk about me when I'm not around,
If at all.
And how, even so,
I wish you called.
(crazy for sweetly cradling that degradation.)
It's the sad realization in 

"whats great about you anyway?"
And that you're not as nice as you insisted.

Sometimes Wednesdays still feel special 

With no reason to be.

 Sometimes I forget to forget you 
And wonder how you are, 

 Sometimes I pass your house and hardly notice that you live there anymore.

But mostly you've become a ghost,
Something to stand on the edges of other memories.

One day I will say your name for the last time,
The syllables will feel strangely unfamiliar by then.
Sharp dusty relics falling shakily off the tongue,
Consonants rusted and rounded smooth filling my mouth like stones.
As if they were never moaned aloud in the heat of passion 
Or a moment of grief.
Never whispered like weary prayers against your skin,
As if they were never alive...

Or ever said at all.