It's easy when you're an hour away and it's been a few weeks.
It's easy when you aren't brought up in conversation like you're the sting of coffee on the tip of everyone's tongue.
You no longer linger in my dreams, day or night because you haven't got the time anymore.

But it's not easy when you've decided to spend the night and the walk from my bedroom to the loft where your heavy breathing feels like it's suffocating me and all that will ease the discomfort is laying beside you, is just steps away.
It's not easy when the soft whispers of how much you love me bounce around the room, repeating themselves, and when I ask if you hear it too all you say you can hear is the soft hum of the refrigerator.
It's not easy when you grab me by my hands and waltz with me in the hallway, and when I say I can't dance, you say you can't either.
It's not easy when I thought I was finally doing okay, and you just came right back.

I can't blame you, because I love you.
And it's one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

I remember the way you used to hold me, as we were both cuddled on my couch, watching re-runs of my favorite show. I would laugh too hard at a joke and you would just smile and wonder how you ended up there.

I remember the way my head felt laid in your lap, the way I hummed in appreciation as you wound your fingers in my hair, my mind slowly drifting in and out of consciousness. The sound of your breath created an equilibrium I only reached when with you.

I remember how upset I was when you woke me up to say goodbye.

I would exonerate myself, telling my mind that the scars across my heart were not his fault, he had no idea.

I remember your texts at 2 in the morning, explaining in full detail the purpose of your midnight snack mission, our arguments about which fast food joint held the best strawberry milkshake seem so distant.

I remember us, but now it just seems like just you, and just I.

Good morning's and good night's aren't blended together anymore, I wonder if the world will ever smell like you again.

I still relish in those moments, wondering if one of these days, you will call me in the middle of the night and tell me you're outside my front door, waiting for me to open it. That it's about to rain and you're afraid of getting wet because you need to be held and you can't stomach the thought of me catching a cold whilst engulfing you

(due to the icy drops falling from your hair and into my eyes. Silly you, those are called tears, and they've already made their home.)

But that's not who we are anymore, because you no longer send me texts telling me why you're driving around the city in the middle of the night, and we don't spend hours in each others arms anymore.

You've discovered the one thing I've managed to keep hidden. And as you hold it between your fingers like some sort of work of art, you begin to study the chips and bruises, wondering how I could let such destructive damage be done. But you cannot see that it is you who has caused it to bleed. Now your nails are digging too deep and your grasp is too firm. And as it pumps out what is left of the love I have for you, dripping off of your fingertips and burning a hole through the ground beneath us, I know it is over.

You aren't fighting for me anymore,
you never really were.

A place I've shared half of my memories with.
It has held and embraced my most vulnerable moments,
carried me through each stage of my life, my first day of middle school, my first job, my first date, road trip.
It carried me home that day I got my period in Pei Wei but refused to call my mom and leave early because I was hanging out with the cool theatre kids.
It carried me home the night of graduation, and held me while I sobbed and thought the world I had so carefully crafted around me was falling apart.
It never spat back what I gave it.
Instead, it wrapped it's polyester arms around me and didn't let go until the world was right side up again.
The passenger seat, given a name to indicate it's existence lies solely in the idea that there must be a driver.
A mother, friend, stranger,
A lover to your left, the world to your right and endless possibilities in front of you.
Whether it be screaming at the top of your lungs to a song you minimally like, or spilling ranch on the seat because "you didn't slow down fast enough that wasn't my fault!"
Now I bravely sit in the drivers seat, the world at my fingertips.
And as I bravely glance over to my 11 year old brother sitting beside me, I know it is his turn to sit back and watch.

I still do not know why you left the way you did. So quick, it was like I turned around for a second and you took it as your opportunity. But you couldn't see that when you left, you kicked up dirt from running away so fast. It got caught in my eye, and now I can't see the same.

I remember one night, we were up until 4:00 in the morning finishing my mothers jigsaw puzzle. It was set up on the dining room table where I sat, and you were standing on the very same chair I was sitting on. Hovering over me, you said it gave you a better view, I just thought it was going to **** your back being bent over the way you were tomorrow morning.  
We were silent, the only sound heard was the sound of your breathing and mine, occasionally matching in sync. You would stretch your arm above me to reach for a piece, and the other would rest itself on my head, gently scratching at my scalp, how soothing.
To any onlooking eyes, it would seem rather strange. The position we were in was in no way normal, but that's how most of our situations ended up being, far from it.
When we finally finished, after hours of contemplation on whether or not we should complete the task, and small remarks with giggles as responses, you stepped down from the chair and grabbed a glass of water as a token of victory, I still remember the way you smiled when you looked at the finished product.
We slept that night apart, but together. You were on one end of the sectional and I was on the other, because we were both too afraid of what the other might say. But right as I started to descend into sleep, you made your way to my end, laid behind me and whispered into my ear that I was great. It was bound to happen, we were like two magnets, always finding our way to each other.

But now it seems like we are the opposite ends, the magnets now fighting against each other, refusing to meet.
So I'm sitting here, a whole year later, finishing another puzzle that I didn't start, but this time I'm all alone. I can't seem to figure out how a picture distorted into 500 different pieces could make me so sad, but somehow it managed. This time you aren't here too encourage me to keep going even though it's 2 in the morning and I'm half asleep. Tonight I am not sleeping on my couch with you by my side and I do not have a stupid smile across my face. In fact, I can't remember the last time I did.

You ripped away from me, there were no more spontaneous texts letting me know you were stopping by, no more staying over late, and saying goodbye when the sun came up.
We were everything. We were Sunday brunches, we were midnight ice cream splurges, we were the song you blasted in your car driving down an empty road.

And now?
We are nothing .

Why is it that the empty spot in my bed suddenly feels so cold when it was never warm to begin with?
He never laid with me after long days, played with the ends of my hair, or kissed behind my ear so even in my sleep I would know he was there.
Why is it that I find myself wanting to use such affectionate titles when calling out to him, when I never had the right to in the first place?
He never slips his fingers through mine when walking back to the car, and neither do I absentmindedly reach over the middle console to hold his free one whilst driving home.

Yet, he never rejects my head laid in his lap after long nights, watching re-runs of a TV show neither of us were really paying attention to.
He never tells me to quit running my shaky fingers through his hair, neither do I wish him away when the sleepy look in his eyes tells me he wants nothing but my company.
And never have I ever scolded him for telling me sweet things when I needed to hear them the most.

The moments we spent under the Autumn leaves are long forgotten, like old Polaroids hidden beneath old gum wrappers and one too many distractions. Only pulled out when in need of feeling something, something to remind you that what you felt was real, that you weren't crazy.

I will not deny that I miss him, his touch. I will not deny that I fell in love with the person that he was that Fall.

However, I will deny any thoughts of him not needing me, because I desperately need him, and I like to imagine a place where we both somehow need each other.

And as I watched him run away from me, with tears in his eyes from the laughter he emitted due to a bad joke, I realized how nice it must be to call such a beautiful person yours.

To wake up in the morning accompanied by him and the sound of silence, because studying one another whilst lying weaved together in only a way the two of you can,  is enough to tell you that you aren't crazy, but in fact, insane.

The last time you were here you told me you knew.
You told me you knew that I had "feelings, or past feelings" and that you "had multiple sources."
However, you never mentioned that they weren't mutual, never told me that you didn't want to ruin our relationship blah blah blah.
You never rejected them, you welcomed them. Encouraged them when you put your fingers to my pulse to check how fast my heart was beating with your touch.
You laughed when I said there were no poems about you, you were convinced otherwise.
And then the next day when I sent the "only one that existed" you responded with "Woah! So it is a thing! Awh!"
You also apologized for "bringing up the past in that way," and mentioned that it "was wack."
I apologized if my feelings made you uncomfortable in any way and you said "it is what it is."
It is what it is?
What is?
What the hell does that mean?
Why say that?
Why why why?
I love you a lot, but please, tell me soon.
What we have doesn't not mean something, right?
What we have is bigger than everyone's disapproval, right?
I miss you.

Seems easier when the sun is out.
Easier to smile, to appreciate the small bits about you you don't like.
To open your dusty journal and begin writing about love again.
Seems that way.
I've had a hard time sitting with a pen and paper in front of me, the paper blank and the pen filled to the brim with ink.
The paper whispers that it misses me, that I've been gone too long.
The pen? Feels so foreign in my hands it's like I've forgotten.

But maybe that shouldn't leave such a vile taste in my mouth? Is my mind fooling me? You see, the reason I started with those two in the first place was because of him, he led me to them.
They became my companions, my bodyguards, my shelter.
They became my needle, supplying the high I needed when I felt abandoned.

Now? Now I can't think of a better time in my life to be happy. Even saying the number 17 sounds wicked, and if you look hard enough there's a smile hiding behind it. As much as I want to stay here with them, and write until wit's end, I don't need to anymore.

I've misplaced my unhappiness, and I don't think I want to go searching for it yet.

Most people love the sound of rain to fall asleep to.
But I cant stand it.
Not when I'm alone and you're a thousand miles away.
Not when the darkness in my room feels like it could swallow me whole.
You're across the country worrying about the weather and money for the bus to the city, and I'm worried about how much longer it will be until your back on the same grounds I am.
It was only two days ago that you left, you came the night before.
We were sat on my sofa, a movie softly humming before us.
You were beginning to get distracted by things like orange juice and how well it paired with whip cream.
Suddenly you embraced me in the most childlike way possible, but somehow it worked.
Your arms were around me.
I took in a deep breath and felt my heart beating rapidly, I was sure you could feel it too.
But then I felt so peaceful, like it had always been this way and always would.
You made me laugh so hard that night, and you laughed at the sound of mine, like you hadn't expected to, such a genuine smile spread across your face. Then later as the movie came to a close, I was dancing my fingertips across the span of your arm as you were falling asleep.
I looked down at your face and watched your chest rise and fall steadily, your eyes so delicately closed, and wished so hard for them not to open until the sun came up. So I could stay down here with you and cozy up next to your chest and listen to your heartbeat.
My own metronome.
But you did wake up, and we did go upstairs as you made your way to your temporary room for the night and I made my way to my own room.
I wanted to wake up early the next morning, to say goodbye before you were off to your flight.
I even set an alarm, determined to wish you a safe flight and silently whisper how much I loved you to myself.
But somehow I couldn't manage to move.
I felt so heavy, like every weight in the world was tied to my wrists and ankles, only making it harder when I pulled.
So I turned over and went back to bed.

Now I'm lying in my bed again, and the sound of the rain has subsided, but the ache of not having you here has not. My fingers hurt like their arthritic because they aren't woven in yours.

You're a thousand miles away, and all that's left of the storm is the drops of condensation falling down my window. It's watered the flowers that you planted in my mind, just please come home soon and tend to them.

I miss you dearly.

And waking up next to you sounds like sunshine,
the kind that dances across your eyelids in the mornings, and kisses you goodnight when the moon takes his shift.
The last sips of our now-cold coffee we share,
along with the boundless exchanges between us
will be cherished like photographs;
put away in place so we can relive them when desired.

I re-organized yours for you, they were getting messy.

I really love you.

I'm listening to a song that is slow and gentle, it tickles my ears like your whispers used to.
I haven't spoken to you in months.
Yes, we've said hello and exchanged a few words, but I really haven't seen you in months.
I miss you, and now you finally know how much.
You know how much this burns, you know how much damage has been done.
We haven't spoken in months.
If I look for long enough I can still find your fingerprints across my skin. They're dulling, and each day it gets easier to watch them spiral around the sink bowl and down the drain.
I hold onto the moments I spent with you because they make me happy. I hold onto the memories I have of you not with hope, but with gratitude.
I thank you for showing me love, for showing me how heartache works so I know how to look out for it next time.
Thank you for teaching me a lesson no one else could.
Thank you for some of the best and worst times of my life.
Thank you.
This isn't goodbye, I'll probably get a few more poems out of you before I close the door on we.
So...see you later.
p.s. this poem ***** because you tend to toss my thoughts around in my head, you ****.

I imagine a day where I walk through the door and there you are, lying on the couch, fast asleep with the TV remote in your hands. I slightly nudge you to move over, only awakening parts of you, but enough for you to know that I am home and in your arms.
I imagine a day where time doesn't seem to bother us as we talk endlessly about distasteful danishes and preferred pillow cases.
I imagine a day where you cannot get enough of me, and flames inside turn into wildfires.

I imagine, I imagine, I imagine.
I never experience.

I really ******* miss you, but I'm no longer bitter.
I really ******* love you, but I'm glad I said goodbye.

I've never really known what it is that you do to me.
You just make me really happy, in a way that only seems to make sense in my head.
I saw you yesterday for the first time in 2 months.
My entire body reacted. It was like tasting wine after a lifetime of only knowing water, everything inside me exploded.
I was euphoric, ready to jump into your arms and spend as much time with you as you could fit in.
I maybe spent 5 minutes with you alone, sitting in my kitchen while eating a bowl of popcorn, talking about what the future held for you.
Then I was whisked away by my friends, only to spend time watching them kiss and laugh. Thankfully neither of those included me, however, it hurt.
Spending time with you makes me the happiest and they knew that, and decided anyway that it was only right I saw to my plans with them.
But two months I had gone without seeing you, and only two hours I wished to be without them.
The two of them spent the night cuddled in each others arms while I stood to the side and held my tongue, not wanting to disturb the bubble they created.
I let that time with you slip right between my fingers and crumble onto the floor.
2 whole months, and I only got two minutes.

You make me want to pull up my covers and think about you till I get sick of the sound of your name
but I never will.
I've exhausted my allies, they're all sick of hearing about whether or not I chose to wave to you in the hallway today.
It's like you've tattoo'd yourself on my tongue, so every time I open my mouth to speak all I have to talk about is the desire to pursue the idea of you more.
How much of me do you want before you actually choose me?
Before you lend me your thoughts and I mind them for you?
Is all I am an idea to you, a passing thought, nothing more than a daydream? Because if so,
please
just
tell
me

As I try so hopelessly to wash his lingering scent out of my hair and off of my skin,
I realize that as I rub so vigorously over and over the surface of my body, its beginning to hurt.
But I cannot stop, I need him to leave.

I need to be 16 and not live for what is to come, but what is,
I rub harder.

I need to fall in love with movies and authors, not boys who are here today and not tomorrow,
I rub harder

My thoughts overflow with images of him, like some sort of broken faucet with missing handles, pouring in more than I can take.

I rub harder. I rub until I bleed, because that's sort of what this is all about.

The thought of leaving him is like getting your finger caught between the closet doors, or forgetting that you left your favorite book outside and coming to find the spring showers bled the words together.

And now, all that is left as I lift myself out of the soapy water, will be the red patched left on my skin.

Because hes no longer mine, maybe he never really was.

I see you
In grocery receipts, in faces at the mall, in college applications.
I cannot escape you, because I think no matter how hard I try, where you planted your flowers will always overgrow mine.
I look for signs of you in every person I meet.
Try to find minimal traits that lead me back to you.
I want you to find me again, to call from an unknown number so I will not know it is you and hear your voice and feel everything all over again.
I want to feel all over again.