All the poetry I've written about us
Had no love, only hurt.
How did I not see
We were doomed from the first week?
How did I
Ignore what I wrote
And keep myself so blind?
I won't give my heart and words
To another broken soul
For my love was sold to a selfish and bold
Person who broke all that I own.

I want to kiss your face
and play with your hair,
but we're far gone, dead—
how can love still be there?

I know it won't come back to life,
but I want to hold you once more.
I want to spend the night;
I want the warmth of your love.

Do you miss my hug?
Do you crave my scent?
If you truly loved me,
why didn't you show me then?

I know we're broken;
there's no way to mend.
But if I just want you for the night,
do you think we can?

To write,
To take an intangible thing—
A feeling,
An idea—
And translate it into coherent words
That another rational being can grasp,
Through these structured arrangements of letters,
The emotions and thoughts
Of someone entirely unique.
How can one not be awed by writing?
How can one not see its magic
In our capacity to share
What resides deep within our souls?

You refuse to look inward
And ask the big questions.
You refuse to open your mind
To a few new perceptions.
How do you want the answer
If you don't do the sessions?
I hope you find what you want,
But life doesn't make exceptions.

I love you, though we're out of sync.
I love you, despite the pain I drink.
I love you, even though we've broken up.
I love you, do you love me, sir?

We're not made for each other,
But I wish we were.
I want you back,
But I'm so tired of breaking and getting on.

I've seen you after nearly a month,
I didn't know I'd miss you this much.
But I do,
I miss you all the way up.
I miss you,
Do you miss me at all?

Seated on the couch,
TV blaring loud.
Nothing more than a hush,
And a corpse between us.

We carry it around,
We poke and make fun,
Pretending it's alive,
What's long gone.

We take showers and make meals,
Life never feels real.
We didn't even think about it at first,
But we're carrying a corpse between us.

Pretending it's alive,
Trying to complete the run.
Where does it take us?
When it's the corpse of our love?

Our love is dead and gone,
And we're trying to keep it alive.
But it doesn't have a pulse, breath, heat, or beat.
We're just carrying its corpse around,
Pretending it's not gone.

We're lying to ourselves again,
lying and lying.
We could never fix what we broke
or get another one.

I wish things were like this,
easy to fix,
easy to bring
back to what it was before,
in the first two or three months.

But life isn't like that,
and even though I don't think it's fair,
that's how it is.
So let's keep going
and keep it a secret.

We're broken, broken,
and it just gets deeper,
longing and crying,
forever weeper.