That hole wasn’t there before

I could try to trace the steps you took to dig it.
Try to pinpoint when it started,
when it grew.

Was the first crack formed
that time we sat in the dark,
faces lit by the TV,
close enough that I could smell the stale smoke in your hair?

Or before that,
when the lights were still on
and I could see your nerves
in the way your eyes couldn’t decide whether to look away
or at me?

Did it start to deepen
when your hand found my leg
and my hand found your hand?

Or did it cave in
as you leaned in too quickly
and found my lips with your lips?

Did it expand every time
we laid in bed
with our foreheads pressed together,
in silence,
breathing slowly?

Or was it your hand on the back of my neck,
always pulling me closer,
that made it grow?

Your words and your touch kept it hidden for so long,
but they’re gone now,
and I see it.

And I know;
That hole wasn’t there before.
You made it, and now I keep it hollow.

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