Is it a sin to remember you five years too late?
To think of your soft lips and rough hands?
To wish that you would come back?

The more I think, the more I realize that I don't mind sinning. I will make a deal with the devil, and sacrifice all I've got. I will bathe in blood under the full moon, and lay in a circle of crystals. I will do anything and everything.

Just please,
come back.

I don't want to be tied to you by this invisible rope,
existence of which you are unaware of. This
embarrassment is too much for me to handle. I don't
want to think of you the way one thinks of a lover. For there
is no love.

There never was.

If I could choose to be reborn as anything I wanted, I would
choose the sunset, in hopes that you would finally look at me.
Perhaps, I would choose the rain, with the intention of feeling your skin. Or else, I would choose the strongest ocean wave, so I could pull you deep down and keep you to myself

I will dance with you
when your energy surpasses that of the
sun, but won't that be easy for you?

I will sin more, because I know
I won't find you in heaven.
I will read more, to
feed my imagination of us together.
I will only whisper, so you are
forced to lean in and listen to my word.
I will become your sugar, your alcohol, your cigarettes, your drugs
I will become anything to make you stay...

My whole body is shaking.
No.
The whole house is. An earthquake?
Can't be.
Ah. Of course.
The rumbling is caused by a natural cause, my mom.
She is cursing us, telling us to **** ourselves. What should we do?
I think of ways to end it fast. Kitchen knife. Wrists.
She can't be serious, can she? She can't mean it, can she?

I wonder if all poets write about you.
A version of you
that I will never know
or never see
or never want to be with.
Endless poems filled with your thoughts and actions and feelings