I'm mad at you for being so far away.
Because I need you.

It's like you don't care.
If you did you'd kidnap me
And write a ransom note out of letters
cut from magazines.

If you cared you'd take the ransom money
and buy us a house by the sea.
One with big bay windows
And a purple door.

But you don't.
Care, I mean.
So you won't.

I'm mad at you for not being here
To fall in love with my mannerisms.
And make fun of the way I touch my face too much
When I get nervous.

It's like you don't even care.
If you did then you'd be here
And we'd be arguing over what to have for dinner.
We'd settle on purogies.

But you're not.
Here, I mean.
So we don't.

I'm mad at you for being so far away
because I want you to hold me
so I can feel small in your arms.

But you can't.
Hold me, I mean.

I don't want to be this way.
This needy leech that clings onto warm things
and turns them cold.

Too eager
too wishful
too expectant.

Burn my skin with a match
and I'll let go of you.

I'll leave you alone.

It's okay.
One day I'll leave this town.
This rundown city
of mundane madness.
This place where they know my face
and forget my name.

I'm endlessly restless.
Every Wednesday is an existential crisis.
I clock my time card
to earn the currency that promises escape
but I can't seem to leave.

Dreams won't come as easily these days.
And soon I fear I will have missed my opportunity
to put them into practice.

I don't want to be alone
but I always find a reason to be.
I've given socializing some thought
and I've decided that I'd rather be a no one
than a "plus one".
It's just not for me.

I'll keep chipping away
my broken bits
until I'm a pile of shards.

Even when you think you've cleaned them all up
there's one lingering.
People don't piece shards back together;
they throw them away
and buy something better.

I missed you.

I'm thinking it,
but withhold from saying the words out loud
to try to seem a little less pathetic than I am.

We lie on our sides,
facing each other
an arm length's apart.

We do not move.
We do not touch.

Your hands are folded  beneath your head.
My hands hold my legs against my chest.

We do not move.
We do not speak.
But I want to touch you.

My thoughts become loud
in the vortex of silence and tension we've created.

No touching.
But I want to.

I'm too aware of your mouth
and how red your lips are,
but not yet aware of how they feel
or taste.

No.*
But I want to.

I want

I want to hug you for three hours.

                 Make that three hours
                 and four minutes.

I want to feel the weight of your head against my stomach.
              
                Listen to the rumbles.
                My belly button is not an "on" switch.

I want to touch your lips
                
                  With my fingertips.
                  Imagining how they'd feel elsewhere.

I want to  moan for mercy.
                
               Watching you
               *Watching me.

He's so. *******. Perfect.
Like,
****.

He likes all the bits of me that I hate
and finds beauty in the things I can't.

I want to eat sprees with him in the bathtub
and dedicate every Magnetic Fields love song to him
and cover him in an endless stream of kisses.

He's the saving grace
that gives me a reason to pray.
And he gives me tinglies in my heart and in my underwear.

I'd gladly endure nine months of nausea
in order to have a miniature human with his eyes.

He makes me forget that I'm average
and encourages me to infect his dreams

I want you endlessly.
I want to be with you,
but for now a pillow will do -
**ish.

I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about lying beside you.
I'm thinking about the way you feel.
I'm thinking about the scratch of your stubble
against my palms.

I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about touching your mouth
with my mouth
and stealing your breath away.
I'm thinking about the way your voice sounds
in the morning
when it's clouded with sleep.

I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about the way we could play make believe beneath the covers.

I'm always thinking.