i can’t write about what it feels like
to run my fingers through your hair
or feel your hands on my skin
(no matter how much i want to)
i can’t speak to the softness of your lips
or what it sounds like
when you whisper my name
(no matter how much i want to)
i don’t know what the skin on your hips
feels like after you’ve showered
or what it’s like to wake up
to your breath on my shoulder
(no matter how much i want to)
i can’t write about the feeling
of our skin
soft and rough
holding hands
(oh god, i want to)
i can’t write about you
in anything other than the abstract
no
matter
how
much
i
want
to

None of us know each other
None of us want to even try
Or maybe it's just me
And maybe my standards
Are too high

They wouldn't understand
All these strangers down the halls
I sit alone on my bed
And hear giggles through
The walls

And no matter how hard I try
It always comes to this odd end
I have to constantly remind myself
A therapist is not
A friend