nothing about the weather

I still know the religion of your mouth and your words. I remember trying to decrypt what you meant to squint, or what it took to weigh down your lips. Wondering how heavy light was for you, and if I could adapt to the lifting.
Months of study, I acquired the idea of your still and your steadiness.
Typically, 
I questioned your morality. Typically,  I gave up the work for the inevitable answer to join you.
I'm sorry but I was infatuated with my focus-focusing on our safety, eliminating any dangerous opportunity.
I ran a structural line of an over confident idea of a relationship, with the idea we'll be okay, and everything will turn out fine once we get into the swing of things. 
I regret that swing and how far it swung; from the rhythm of what we started on.
I still think about you.
And I still regrettably speak your name without a peripheral of your fists or your grinding teeth.
I reminisce the relationship cowardice. I reminisce as a coward.
I impose any conclusion of how we actually laid in bed. And I'll deny what inevitably destroyed us, so I can get to sleep. 
Unfortunately,

I write occasionally about this. Mostly to acknowledge it happened and deflect any realist explanation of being alone and how I got there.
Unfortunately, I can still imagine the detail to comfort me, but the repetitive contextual tick I hear ticks loud when I lean back into those places we made, sadly and shamefully it tells me you've left. 

I write so many Shitty bullshit words about you and my bloody, fucking regrets. My shallow words embarrass the embarrassment I write and sit here planning to read a thesaurus and shaking my head.
I don't want to be writing about you still.
I fathom how many times I can use the same words, or how much I'll have to write to truly portray it all.
I think, remember, memorise and try to learn but hanging my head toward my chest seems an inevitable shame.
I can't win.