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Betty Boop

              i think i see g h o s t reflections
          of her in the bodies of so many girls
       that pass by; i see a Betty Boop
bag and a tugging, pulling of her recessed,
hidden deep memories struggle out,
situate itself in front of my vision-mind
self and begins to conversate with him:

miss me much?
  why are you here?
cause you still miss me. love me. desire me. want me to meet you again.
  i don't know what you're talking about.
you want to kiss my soft, tender lips one more time. you think, 'if i could just kiss her juicy lips once more, that's all i would need.'
  shut up.
and you want to hold me. hold me and just sit there, remember? like the time we lazed and stared at the ceiling and we didn't need nothing else to do? remember? and we just listened to the sound of our breaths, and comforted ourselves with the vibrations of our hearts.
  i think you should go.
it was great! don't you remember? you loved it! you don't want to re-live it once more?

and i realize torture is her specialty, will be
laughing as she happily leaves me be,
making me forget the trauma and diseased
heartache she gave, and even though

i can't seem to recall one instance where
she made me regret so, this note i
left for myself is warning me,
saying to take my leave, get out,
to never again touch the spaces once occupied by her,
and so i regrettably, begrudgingly leave, keeping safe
the thought badness looms round the bend,
trusting in myself to save myself.

watching my vision-mind self resist her, i smile
as she picks up her Betty Boop bag and
pouts, walking away with my pleasure,
my joy, my joy my memories wrangle
with pain - i can't tell the clouds from
the stars, swear they're one and the
same, only trusting meteorologist that a
storm will surely occur before the end of the day.