I remember crying over you and I don’t mean a couple of tears and I’m blue. I’m talking about collapsing and screaming at the moon.
I’m really afraid to feel happy because it never lasts.
I have buried you in every place I’ve been. You keep ending up in my shaking hands.
Where exactly do you put your hands on somebody who hurts everywhere?
i’m sitting at the kitchen table with you.
you’re drinking black coffee and i’m drinking tea.
you kiss me and tell me you love me.
i say it back by tracing hearts on your arm with velvet fingertips.
it is sunny outside,
75 degrees and we’re going for a walk now.
you pick me up and spin me around and our laughter sounds like innocence.
you take me to the park and say “we kissed for the first time here.”
you kiss me.
you hold my hand like it’s your grandmothers china
and i hold yours like it’s the only thing that keeps me stitched together.
we go home and fall asleep on the couch.
i wake up and you’re gone.
you were never here.
i’m sitting at the kitchen table.
i’m drinking tea.
i say “i love you” to the wall and imagine that you’re there to echo it back.
it is cloudy outside,
43 degrees and pouring.
i’m going for a walk now.
i spin around in the street and my laughter sounds hollow.
i go to the park.
i think we kissed for the first time here, i’m not really sure anymore.
my hands feel heavy and i think i need you to hold them.
my stitches are coming undone.
i go home and sit on the couch.
i call you and you say you’re busy, to call back tomorrow.
my mother asked about you today and i smiled and started crying.
i didn’t even have to tell her,
she could tell by the way my voice didn’t shake when i said your name.
i love saying your name.
i whisper it sometimes, hoping to speak you into existence here;
hoping that maybe it will swallow the gap between the two of us.
one day this will be bearable.
one day maybe i’ll be able to reach across the kitchen table and find your hand.
i can’t seem to find it this morning, so i settle for resting my hand on the sun rays spread across my bedsheets.
i ask the universe to swallow the gap between us, but she says she’s too full, to call back tomorrow.
i could really use a hug or rough sex up against a wall
It’s funny. When you leave your home and wander really far, you always think, ‘I want to go home.’ But then you come home, and of course it’s not the same. You can’t live with it, you can’t live away from it. And it seems like from then on there’s always this yearning for some place that doesn’t exist. I felt that. Still do. I’m never completely at home anywhere.