You were three in the afternoon
And I was six a.m.
And jesus christ
Sometimes I was 8:59
To your 9 o' clock
Flirting in the spaces
Never to be synchronized
Floating in time
On different spectrums

Two weeks ago
I was two in the morning
And so were you
Our bodies filled the spaces
Time had never given to us

You are my
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleve­n.
Twelve.
o'clock

You are all my hours
Now is our time

I drove an hour in pouring rain
to get to see you last night.
You showed me your favorite places
as we walked around town soaking wet.
We went back to your dorm
and changed our clothes.
Laying in your bed
our hands fumbling for each other
in the darkness.
Our lips tracing every square inch
of each others bodies.
I already knew the truth.
And I thought that this
would fix things.
But you said it was a mistake
as you held me close
in your arms.
You didn't feel
the same way about me.
I kissed you again
because I was dying
for your affection.
You kissed me back.
Was that a mistake too?
This can only be tonight
you said
last night.

Your scent lingers
on the 200 thread count sheets
we bought the day that it rained
and perhaps it was the sky
shedding a tear
because we mustered up the pocket change
to have a warm bed to sleep in
at night.
I didn't do the laundry
and I probably won't for a while
and I'll tell myself it's because
I don't have enough pocket change
because I can't tell myself the truth.
Today I unplugged the refrigerator
in the apartment
I couldn't afford the electricity
because I couldn't muster up the pocket change.
It's been 6 days since you left
with a backpack of clothes
a bus ticket
and some pocket change.

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me.

And the words turn
into drops
into waterfalls
into rivers
into oceans.

And they turn
and they turn
and they turn.

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me.

And the words wont leave now.
They're stuck in my head.
****.
*****.
*****.

And over again
and over again
and over again.

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me.

And the words tell me
that I'm not good enough
as I cry softly
into the night
wondering why.

And I cry
and I cry
and I cry.

Sticks and stones may break my bones.
And the words, they hurt me.