Used To

I used to write about you all the time. 

How your laugh reverberated your whole body and somehow affected mine,

How your eyes would hide those witty smiles as you tried to hold back a laugh and failed miserably in the process,

How alluring was your mouth as it formed the sound of my name,

How you made me smile effortlessly even during my weakest point,

How your tight embrace was all I could ever ask for in this world,

How your lips felt when they met mine,

And how your love completed and destroyed me when you never came back.

I used to write about you all the damn time. 
But now, My writings were as fleeting as your feelings for me were. 

I forgot the lines of your face and how I hated and loved them all the same.

I forgot what it felt like to write with bursting colors even in the darkest ink of my pen.

I forgot the tugging feeling at my heart when I steal glances at you.

I forgot what it

felt
like

I

forgot 

myself.

And now in an old house with the crooked window panes and filthy wooden floors, in my scrambled notes on top of the bedside table, you’ll find your name written in ink-the last words I’ll ever write  about us.