And to think. I've just thrown you away like an empty bag. But you're still full! How did I miss even the crumbs waiting in your shiny recesses, your crumpled volume? Every bit you have to offer, its better than the alternative. Wishing. And longing or whatever. I'm not proud. Its wasn't the glittering independent moment I thought it would be. Because you're still full and because I've just thrown you away.

You hand just hangs
there like a question.
I want to reach for it.
To fold it into my smaller one.
To fold it into the corner
of my existence that I have left open,
swept clean,
for some time now.
Waiting for the right one to crawl into it and
stay for a while.
I can feel the crackle of your skin from here. Without
even touching it.
That the sound of air leaving your lungs
makes my body clench low and wet and tight
seems almost unfair.
But to understand
that you aren't moved
by me
at all,
that too,
seems unfair.
That when my hand hangs
in the air
like a question,
you don't even understand that
your hand is the
answer.

I keep coming back to you.
I try to write about other things.
but I get stuck on you. constantly.
I replay conversations and interpret glances and touches.
I want to write about your muscular hands and your heavy jaw.
And your tongue
but the words aren't good enough.
I want to write about you but I can't and I can't write anything
else.
Because I keep
coming back to you.

you were quiet and i was loud, talkative

you asked to borrow a pencil so i gave you the one with the hellokitty stickers on it just to see you smile

you gave it back with a note and i read in my car in the parking lot after class

it said that you thought my hands were beautiful, but i always thought that they were too small and definitely too pudgy and said so underneath the scrawl of hellokitty’s graphite. oh, and thanks

when i gave it back, you looked confused and turned the scrap over to show me the name on the front and it wasn’t mine

that same day someone slashed the tires on your honda accord