In the dark bed, under the weight of his body, I think of you. I thought six months was long enough. Alive, you were always the jealous type. I imagine that night on the beach. We stumbled out of the bar and sat on top of the doon. You said you liked the way the moonlight licked the water and I said to stop being corny. You pushed me down the doon and tumbled after me. You said you liked the way the moonlight licked my body and I said to fuck me harder.

In the dark bed I feel the back of your neck for that tuft of hair and pull you closer, but his neck is smooth and thick and I remember he isn’t you. I cry and he holds me tighter, and I push him out of me, and he says to take all the time I need.

I smoke a cigarette in my car in his sweatshirt, and the way the moonlight laps the metal hood reminds me of you. I read our old texts and cry, but his name appears across my screen and eclipses your array of sunglassed emojis. The door’s unlocked. I’m here when you’re ready. 

I look up at the apartment and see his silhouette, palm pressed against the glass. I press mine to the car window. I gaze up at the moon and ask you if you would still love me if I went back inside.