Looking at photos of your ex over your shoulder,

I imagine the two of you at fifteen.

You, all burnt hair and bursting love.

Him, a set of restrictions you tried to learn

before they were hidden from you.

Now he is a song you sing sometimes

in front of your friends.

A stream you occasionally point to

as you move directioned and away.

At your band’s first show,

I listen to you sing and think,

I hate these songs we write about our failures,

the water-marked pains we keep drowning in,

and how they always get stuck in my head.