sentimentality.

you’re my favourite. I know we might never speak again
and I’m sure it is for the best
but still. it’s true. I miss you. I miss your face and your voice. although
our pictures are long gone from my phone
and I deleted your number ages ago.
even so, I let myself indulge in this fantasy.
you’re my favourite impossibility.
I’m nostalgic for a touch that’ll never come. you walk past me on a crowded street
and our hands don’t brush like they used to,
but I’m still warm. I remember what it feels like to be held close to you-
your fingers delicate and intentional against my skin
and lately the distance only adds to the tension
you’re my favourite memory. you’re my favourite delusion,
and I almost like you more now than when you were right by my side
so much prettier and kinder and a better lover made up in my mind
what a shame that the truth only reveals itself in hindsight-
but I guess a poet like me is simply more prone to the intoxications of sentimentality
and one could say you’re my favourite glass of wine
after all, there’s nothing I do better than yearn
        for the things I’m not even sure I like.