Murmur

I hate it. I always have. It's a reminder of how we were, who we could be and worst of all what we aren't. It's always the same. It starts with a slow murmur, a quiet thought that gains obsession as the hours pass. Sometimes it's a song (our songs, the ones we lazily smiled and held hands to), a smell (your smell, your perfume mixed with the delicious smell I can only describe as you), a movie (the ones we watched together at single screen theatres just so that we could hold hands) and sometimes it's a half forgotten memory (pieces of which I cling on to desperately and recreate from some dark corner of my mind). I'm thrown back involuntarily to the memory of us. The way you felt, the way your heart beat felt against my body and the way your smile felt on my lips. It's a downward spiral I can't stop. It's that lingering feeling again. The dull heartache to remind me you left with a part of me. The breathlessness, the mild headache and the sweating to remind me that even today the memory of your touch leaves me shattered. Slowly and surely, the deep seated wretchedness surfaces its ugly head, reminding me that I was dispensable, that I was the appendage you cut loose, that I was the one who was left wondering why I wasn't good enough