Remember?

My bedroom walls are stained with tears, and when I look at the Spanish lace for too long, I see you sitting at the edge of my bed, refusing to look me in the eyes. The hardwood floor has an indention where my knees made contact, where a body fell with nothing to catch it. My car is perfumed with your cologne, and when the static in the radio gets too loud, I hear your voice ring through my head with a thousand different words. It first whispers 'I love you', and like a kid on Christmas, I accept it with longing in my eyes. Then it screams 'nevermind', and my beloved new toy is snatched from my arms. As I start to regain my composer, the static must sense me moving on and losing interest, and so it leans in close, close enough that I can hear Claire de Lune playing softly somewhere, and with lips nearly pressed to my ear, it says her name. Slowly, confidently. The two syllables pronounced as clearly as possible. Then a song comes through, one that I can sing along too. My knuckles are tattooed with a red watercolor painting. Your blood and mine swim around on the surface of my skin. Sometimes I let myself wade through the pool. I ignore the pinking of my clothes, the burn of my nose from iron, the unnerving warmth of what I want to believe is water. Instead, my hand becomes a paintbrush, and every stroke is rough and nearly unsure. Just like when I first painted the covered bones. My spine is bruised with your words. The sentences that you spoke, now sit piled on my shoulders, and the bowing of my back becomes understandable. My hair is now cropped short. You used to worship the red locks that framed my face. Remember? Blonde was always too bland for your taste. So, why have you now decided that the flowers shaved on my head are right for your garden, when six months ago, the ones from my scalp weren't good enough because they were wilting away?