I think there will always be a space held,
just for you.

An open door with the lights on,
waiting with tender heart.

My loose ended red string,
the open book that was never closed,
never finished.

I will always
have a piece of me,
waiting.

I can't run from the fire
that is you.

I can only throw myself
to the flames
and
burn in it.

And if there's anything I'm guilty of
Then it was the fact that I always wear my heart on my sleeve.

In hopes you might catch a glimpse of it
and run the fabric between your fingers
before you leave.

I'm always going to be a little too much
and you,
too little, too late.

This is my pattern,
my wounding,
my fate.

I feel you fade and even though I shouldn't,

I wait.

I am bursting at the seams
From all of my expansion
Spilling over the edge.
No one can hold me,
and I can't contain it.
I am always too much.
So much that somehow
I am never enough.

Something about the same sun shining on us both comforts me.

I close my eyes and smile briefly,
as I pretend the warmth is coming from you.

Even though you are as far away from me
as the sun and sky, somehow I feel you just the same.

I'll clench my teeth until they break
Before I ever let it out.
I'll clamp it shut as they crack and shatter before I utter a word of the pain.
I'll bite through my tongue before you hear me say how bad it hurts.

I won't give that to you.
I won't give it to anyone.