Forgetting.

I’m pinned to the wall collecting dead skin cells from all the lovers you’ve pressed up against me.

I’m pinned to your forehead like a note your mother leaves when you take a nap.

I’m pinned to the door, swinging aimlessly in an abandoned house that’s going to fall apart soon.

I’m pinned to your lips, as they kiss the back of her hand.

I’m pinned to all these beautiful dreams of yours, that are sitting in a forgotten old cabinet in your study.

I’m pinned to every place you’ve been: Spain, Russia, France. Here.

I’m pinned to the underside of the coffee table you put your feet on while you watch TV.

I’m pinned to the insecurities you think about when you’re alone.

I’m pinned to that relationship you know you should fix, but don’t.

I’m pinned to your chest, like the girl in your bed last night was.

I’m pinned to the drops of sweat running down your neck, cold and distracting.

I’m pinned to all the lies you hate yourself for telling.

I’m pinned to your breath, your lungs, your throat, the top of your mouth.

I’m pinned to the music playing as you sleep.

I’m pinned to the moment when you think of me, and then push me away to the back of your mind.

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