Missing you
is kind of like that itch I sometimes get on my lower back.
I initially assume that it's just the ends of my hair,
but am quickly reminded
that I cut my hair off
to forget about the way you pulled it.

-The grinding metal of my grandmothers car being junked because she could no longer drive it, or afford to feed the cat.

-Apologies and Band-Aid wrappers taking turns being tossed to the floor as my father cleaned up ****** knees that he tripped me into.

-The baby's cry that wouldn't stop no matter how many times the pastor pleaded with his congregation to relieve the sanctuary of their miserable children.

-The violent scream of both a passenger and rubber burning against pavement, followed by a demolished guardrail, motorcycle, and skull. As heard from the neighboring yard, over s'mores.

-Four gunshots. And then a single siren.

This list includes:
Things more pleasurable to hear
than the sound of the ringing
that was left in my ears
when all you could say
was "it's weird".

I know how you like your tea
and your favorite latte.
I know your favorite candies
and how you like to be held rather than to hold.

I don't know your favorite color
but I can tell you the color of your eyes when you're laughing
is brighter than any hue I've seen.

And I don't know where you are now,
but I can tell you where you took me
when you told me your childhood memories
and about your dream last night.

And I won't lie
and say I've counted every freckle on your shoulders,
but I can admit
I've counted every time I've noticed them.

The best way I can explain how I feel
is to let you know that I'd miss the sunrise to lay next to you instead,
And I know I've never felt that way.

She asked for a lullaby
to calm her fears and close her eyes.
Now she bleeds in melody
crimson notes played freely.
They drip to the floor
from a puddle in the crib,
and the mobile where she hangs
is the last place she would live.
It rocks and creaks
creating a beat,
while slowly she sways
in perfect harmony.
And as I am overcome
with the rhythm of regret,
I sing her one last lullaby
and finally go to bed.

My hair and car smell like an ashtray,
but that's okay as long as I get to watch the smoke escape your lips
the way the words "I love you" used to.

I'd let you put your cigarettes out on my skin
for the rest of my life
if it meant your fingertips might brush the surface for a second.

You think in terms of a hundred thousand tomorrows, readily available at your disposal. Like a carefree cattle in a field of green where anything is yours for the taking.
I think in the most apocalyptic terms, like today is out last and there's no time to do anything but love.
I don't know, maybe you believe that all of those tomorrows are there for you to come back to me whenever you please. Maybe you would rather spend every tomorrow by someone else's side. Maybe you want to be alone, away from the herd.
I am a hungry cattle in a barren field. I am starving for your attentions, wasting away with a lack of significance to you.

Apocalyptic? Maybe not, but I'm dying without you either way.