sometimes when you fade into the
background of my thoughts (we all know that's not
often) I open my eyes and see the
city street again instead of your running
feet flashing down that hall  wrapped in gray
and the stars dim above our ceiling made
of streetlight beams and car exhaust,
twinkling so madly
desperate to be seen.

her face
turns my stomach

like bruised fruit
in june

sun on my shoulders
ice in my feet I think I'm
ready for anything
ready for everything except
today

you weren't
                      anything to me
         worth
                  
                  the time it took
                  to type these
                  words

I'd rather run
13.1 miles in
two hours
filled with
sweat and tears

than be your
kind of

Beautiful
again,

my dear.

they tell me all good poetry begins
with something grotesque and huge
and Unknowable and all I know is it
doesn’t  
will never
begin
with your name
filling my head
swirling round  

between you
and the future
and the Lonely places
where souls go when
they can’t hear their thoughts anymore
and the idea that
maybe I can’t matter to anyone
because
I never Mattered to you

except as far as
two hours of
“don’t be scared”
and
“it’s okay”
and
“you’re beautiful”
can go and
I was confused
because

for a fleeting
second
I felt
honestly
truthfully
Beautiful

but if
that's what it
took
to feel
to be this
Beautiful
to you

then maybe I never wanted
want to be
beautiful
after all

I asked you to
                                       Look at me
But now
                                       I’m afraid
I think it’s better
                                       For us

                         If you go