You and I haven't said a word to each other in ages

the last time I heard your voice was seven years ago.

So how come I still remember the story you told me

about the night your dad left, 

and why can I still find myself feeling sad for you

when a memory of your dirty kitchen surfaces?

Why should I care about how happy you are

with your new husband out in Ohio

when you were the one who invalidated me

in moments of complete vulnerability?

You spilled my secrets like bright red paint

  on an old tan carpet.

My first broken heart didn't come from a lover.

We couldn't help anything.

And I still miss you sometimes.