Countless cigarettes and the fog of burned lungs on bathroom sinks. The steam causes a claustrophobic feeling. The type that adds on to the already closed in emotion of my half-there, barely steady heart. I can see him in the smoke, torturing me with his presence. I imagine he can feel me where he is, too. I feel like I want to scream and I want to melt into the floor all at once. I know I won’t be good with him, but I know I’ll think of him in my bed where less sleep happens than thinking. However, he’ll sleep soundly in a bed made of women and sweat. They will cover his sheets in movements I once found familiar and be touched by the only hands that know my body fully. I won’t weep, but I will stew in all of the hot emotions brought by memories of our intertwined being, and our outrage. I know he will still feel me in the moments I am gone. Visions of my face will still consume him in the slightest moments of happiness and then I will pass. Forget me with your hand in the snatches of other women. Forget me as your body explodes everything, but what you actually feel. It’s much more satisfying and everything you’ve ever pretended to not secretly want. Just know that I will stay with you in fingertips on bare skin until someone touches you better.