You broke the parts of me that I liked the most.
I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for that.
I can’t seem to write like I used to.
It used to be such
The words would pour out
and only form your name.
I was always content with putting you permanently on paper.
But you’ve been missing for quite some time now.
And every day it feels like you fade
At first, you might assume this is a good thing.
I’m even worse when I can’t feel enough to put ink on these pages.
Your name has been contained inside my lips
and no one hears me whisper it anymore.
Show me a rough time, love,
and I’ll write a book
about how you were the only one to touch me
and stain me forever.
A lot of truth was spilled tonight.
I don’t even know how I’m going to sleep.
I’m into dark things
Things that come out at night
Or soft morning fog at 5AM
when I’m nearly off work,
and I can barely start to make out an outline of the trees
Or your mind at 3AM,
when the ghosts roam through,
and remind you of me.
I grasp at these inked numbers on my skin
as if somehow I’ll pull a piece of her
out of each digit.
My eyes used to wander
back and forth between the freckle on your lip
to the three that formed the constellation on your cheek.
I never got another chance
to count the specks that were thrown about your body.
I can’t even remember what it’s like to have a muse.
One year of complete silence.
I never thought it would end up like this.
It’s been a week.
I’m sorry you haven’t heard from me.
I truly wish I could tell you that it’s because
I simply don’t want to talk to you anymore.
I wish it were that simple.
But no, my dear.
My mind goes mad
with all of the words I would die to write to you.
I have sheets filled
with paragraphs so heavy
that they alone could have made the Titanic sink.
You would be sick of the sappy bullshit after only two pages.
I am best left writing letters to you
at an address that doesn’t exist.
At least the silence was consistent.
Call me when it’s over.
One hundred and seventy five.
Three hundred and thirty three.
Three thousand and ninety four.
I’d kill to drive east
six hundred and eleven more.