our fights are like
shampooings,

lather
      rinse
         repeat.

next time,  i'll just keep my hair
*****

if my tongue was as good with words as my fingers on the keys
there would be no need for me to write this half assed poetry

ever get that feeling
that itching in the very tips of your fingers
the lump in your throat
that knot in your stomach
that wrench in your heart
when you
just
have
to get
it
out.
but you don't know what you're trying to get rid of

thinking back to
all those 4ams spent sitting next to you on that couch in near perfect silence.
the only sounds,
a turning page,
some achievement unlocked.

every half hour or so, we'd exchange glances
the only words your
"sorry i'm so boring"s
followed by my obligatory
"don't worry about it"s

i didn't think i'd miss it so much.

missing.
the child on the back of that milk carton isn't the only thing.

empty.
and not just the chair across from me.

silent.
i don't mean the 4am air.

there's something, someone, anything.
that's missing from my life.
meaning, feeling, inspiration.
who knows exactly what.

all i know is every morning i wake up, my heart feels like the tomb must have that first so called easter morning.

have you ever set foot on thin ice?
heard the shattering sound of your only support
giving out from underneath you?
i have

how did you feel when you first plunged into that ice cold water?
were you pierced by sharp daggers
ripping through you?
i was.

did it happen to you again and again?
each time hoping the results would differ
hoping your heart wouldn't be torn out again?
i did.

did you get over everything that happened?
did you forget each dagger
that pierced your heart?
i won't.

just like that time you got punched in the stomach.
all your breath was gone.

your words make me feel
just.
like.
that.