I now say your last name when I say your first name - string the two together like they could never be separate entities - because you are no longer the first person I associate with that name. I read poems without you in mind. I paint on canvases without remembering red was your favourite colour. I string roses onto rope and sew them into the hems of my skirts without remembering you hate the smell of flowers and you despise roses because they're covered in thorns. You used to be a thorn: until one day you simply weren't. You are no longer able to draw blood from me with just a prick and a pinch of the skin - you cannot hurt me. Your taste becomes an aftertaste; your right dimple a souvenir with no place to call home.
(wrote this post in fifteen minutes at a starbucks in the middle of tackling chemistry and eating a quiche, do pardon it)