You are a guitar
and its woodsy scent
when it has never been played.

You are the forest
as background to a storm,
car windows down
and no sound but the glass
cutting the wind in half
and the pounding in our chests.

You are summer at 3am
when sleep is unnecessary
and the stars are most vulnerable.

You are the scent
of
cedar
and rain
and home.

I loved the way you found subtle ways
to criticize my every move,
as long as it was worded well.
I loved the way you lied to all your friends
about me;
I'm sure they know
what a lovely person I am.
I loved the way you clung to me;
I know you didn't mean to leave
when the lights came back on.
I loved the way you told me all your secrets;
the ones about your ex
and how infatuated with her you still are.
I loved the way you told me
we should stop talking
because you "would rather not hook up"
as if calling me three days later
would make me believe
I had wanted to in the first place.

I love the way
I am finally over it.

an unread book,
a pair of broken headphones,
the shirt of someone who is perfect in my eyes.
a bic lighter,
a glass of water,
a succulent that i could never seem to keep alive.

condensation forms on the surface of the table
as the water begs to bring life back to the plant,
but the lonely plant only speaks of the sun
and the way it desires his light.

Sitting next to a stranger, I wonder what kind of life she goes home to.

The positive,
A mother who is kind and gentle and reassuring,
Who teaches her to be her own person rather than those surrounding her.
A father with dark skin from the sun,
Dedicated to his garden and enthused to teach her about it,
And also to teach her about life and change and fairness.

The negative,
A mother who was adventurous and spontaneous and wondrous,
Who taught her that not everyone is guaranteed
Enough time to live out their dreams.
A father with eyes as blue as her own, but with less joy,
Fortunate enough to be where he is,
But wishing that life hadn't torn him from his other half.

it's sunday morning and you wake up early for him.

you sit in a building with a bunch of "good people" and you know they're good because they're in the same place you are.

you listen to a man or a woman speak your words for you except they aren't your words.

you come home and you sit on the couch and you read your little book full of what you say is the "truth" but you don't actually know.

you change the station because what's entering your ears isn't about him and in his eyes that's a sin.

you get angry when i call you religious because it's "not the right term."

you tell me i'll never be happy unless i introduce myself to a being that doesn't even exist.

you watch your youngest daughter do what makes her happy and you sigh in disappointment.

when will you learn?

I look around a room full of strangers and wonder how many of them send pills down their throat every morning just to feel normal, and how many of them are strong enough to deal with their ****** up minds on their own, and how I am not.

******* my hands haven't shook this much since the first time you held them in the backseat of the car. what if i'm just imagining all of this and you don't actually miss me at all? what if on friday i pour my heart out to you and you can't tell me you've felt the same for the past two years? why the **** do i still care so much? god i miss your touch and your lips and your skin and eyes and fingers and that perfect ******* smile. why am i the only one who sees it?