I still talk to you every night
right before I go to sleep,
as if that will bring you back.
I know you can hear me,
or so I hope you can. I hope
you're at peace and laughing
at my incomplete thoughts
and silly mistakes. I wish
you were here to make these
mistakes with me and to
respond when I ask you
what's new. But for now I'll stick to
having one-sided conversations with
you in the dark, always ending with
"how're you doing lately? I hope it's heaven."

She has a twisted sense of what’s beautiful,
carving feelings into her skin and calling it art;
the kind of girl that thinks more than she breathes.
She thinks maybe writing will calm her nerves,
so she lets the words flow from her pen,
but her heart still aches the same.
Do you have the same fascination with words
as you once shared with her,
or have you moved on from that too?
She keeps the books you gave her because she
can see where your fingers traced the page,
mesmerized by the words of someone else’s story.
She tragically waits for a boy who never
really cared about the words she wrote,
and will never care about her.