Worn

“Well, I’ve got to get going” He says.
He pulls his shirt back over his head, run his hands down the sides as if to erase any remembrance of me.

His voice does not kiss every word
The way yours used to.

“I’ll see you around.”
Oh god, I hope not.

I beg for someone to mention him,
Don’t mention him,
Don’t say his name,
Just say his name
Just once,
I want to know
How it sounds against someone else’s teeth.

Mine are worn with your three syllables.

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