you're wrong
she is not understanding
she is of gigantic question marks and
she sleeps on a bone-numbing hard mattress of whys
she is in the sweat-breaking comfort of her lover's hold but she never told anyone how she made a commitment with a what ifs two years ago

you're very wrong
she is neither calm or kind
you can't really call a crying hurricane a calm and kind thing
her facade is smiling with a turbulent anger
but never to anyone, only her own
and she never leaves anyone's home without a gentle au revoir
but her room is just an empty, vacant loony bin
you can't really call a ghost a living thing

the first day I met you
I visited the store
and bought a new
journal. I wanted to
write you, so that I
could remember you in
script and in memory, I
wanted to have the chance
to be apart of your evolution,
I wanted to recreate you,
and scrawl you down through
the loops and curves of my words
I wanted to be apart of you in some
extended and intended with only well
regards, I wanted to write of you, freely
and openly, I wanted to write to you,
to make love to you, bleed ink over
white sheets, I wanted to write for you.

I am nothing without this thing called spell check
I have nothing on many of yours education
and many of yours upbringing
and I envy most of your elegance
but I will continue to speak from my heart
hoping you hear me, and hoping you do the same