even after everything
if i could go back
to the first moment we met
i wouldn't run
from the heartache
i'd only tell myself
just how worth it
you were.

dark night is the bed
to which i come
mostly late,

strip my soul,
lay it down
covered in
memories of
black and white

nostalgia dressed
in a tear-soaked mess
wetting my pillow case

i’m falling down,
asleep;

dark night
is the bed
in which you
no longer wait
for me to come
mostly late.

i still
do not know
the poem i've been trying to write
and maybe
that's because
i haven't been
writing one at all
or maybe it's because
the poem i've been trying to write
is not ready for paper
and maybe
i'm the paper
that's not ready for it