i laid next to him after we'd finished, we lay there half naked. he's on his back watching the TV, i'm on my side, leaning on him. i move my head as close to his chest as i can.

after i lay there for a while, i realized the ugly truth. this is not my dream. he won't hold me close and run his thumb up and down my arm. he'll just lay there, waiting to drift off, as if i'm not even there.

i gave up, i turned over to my side, back facing him, just thinking of how hollow i've become. when he finally does turn to spoon me, he loosely puts an arm over my waist, but i realize it's no use.

i'll always be empty.

once, i heard that artists are prone to mental illnesses; especially poets.
i looked up what it means to be prone to something, and it was defined as "likely or liable to suffer from, do, or experience something unpleasant or regrettable".
and it's true, i have been prone to mental illnesses since i was just 12, but i feel more prone to you than i do to the chemical imbalance in my brain.
wait, no, i'm wrong.
i'm not "prone" to you, because i wasn't likely to suffer from you, i was destined to.
you were always right there in front of me. even when i had someone else, you were always standing in the back, you were always present.
it's like my destiny was to suffer because of you. and although the aftermath is unpleasant and horrid, i can't call you regretful.
you've been sitting quietly in my mind since the day we met all those years ago, and you don't seem to be leaving any time soon.

"i can't see you", you said to me the night we were in the dark after i turned the light off,
"hold your hand out, i'll find you", i told you.
little do you know i meant that far more than the literal meaning of it.
i will always find you in my world, even when you're not physically there.
i will always find you in my mind, even if you're quietly sitting in the corner.
i will always find my way to you. dark, light, thick, thin, up, down, anywhere.

you wake up
his hair is spilled across the pillow,
the sun slants across his cheekbone
and his breath is slow and even.
he smells like an open field
and his body is wrapped around yours
so he keeps you warm.
you think,
there is no moment better than this,
that he is too perfect to exist.
but you wake up gasping,
skin soaked in sweat.
you lie there for a long time,
in your completely empty bed.

they say it won't matter in a month, a year, maybe ten
but what happens if it does
what happens if a year later my heart still aches at the sound of your name
then what

you're the only thing that makes me feel alive yet you're slowly killing me