I.
And I finished the playlist I made for you.
It's lovely, once you listen
seven times.

II.
I appreciated when you told me nothing would change but
may never know if you were lying.

III.
If you believed that,
did you also believe I was the one changing things?

I.
You never wrote a break up poem for your first love.
You never fell in love again & you never will.

II.
You never had a break up to write about with your second love.
It was slow, soft, a gentle falling apart, an easy descent into
whatever this is, whatever it means that you don't
acknowledge their eyes anymore you pretend you never
hear it when they laugh.

III.
You haven't talked in weeks but it's hitting you now;
someone who held you down on bed springs, someone who
held you in their arms at all.

IV.
You're mourning a death of
months ago.

I.
You will never be sure of the correct manner in which to exist and you
will stumble over every line every
time you open your mouth and your
mumbles are honey.

II.
You are never quite right about what is expected of you and you
are always convinced someone is being hurt because you've
gone and done them wrong and yet you have done more
right by me than anyone I have ever known.

III.
It's alright you're falling into my arms you're falling into my
arms you're not falling apart.

I.
There is nothing wrong with you the way you,
talk the way you do the way you,
hold too tightly before you fall sleep when you,
are up against me there is nothing wrong with,
me.

I.
No one writes poetry about you. You are
an enigma, you are an enigma of unreality and
displeasing angles, too many
bones inside a shell covered with marks you
put there yourself on the best of days on the
worst of days the days you
can't remember.

II.
You watched a Swedish film once called
"Boys" and you think about it often because when
they said the word "homosexual" it was subtitled as
"******", and when they said the word "transgender", the subtitles
said "******".  You are like those subtitles
in your own head, over and
over.

III.
You'll make a film someday and you will
yell the word ****** from an overpass, and you preface it
with "I am a", and you will make it
poetry.

I.
There will be enough breath in you to shout,
and there will be enough people who love you to listen.

I.
You don't recall it feeling this ****** up to say those words;
You don't recall anything & you don't want to.