i wrote to you,
not here,
not in poetry,
not in private,
but to you,
the real you,
and you won't answer,
and i'm dying,
and you would never answer,
because you turned me off like a switch,
i'm dead to you,
and I'm dying,
you are killing me,
you are killing me
and I love you

anxiety

Hide the dreams of the mind
back from the agony of years
once it leaves
months, leaving orphans
like autumn leaves
left on earth

Hide the land of dreams
straight into winter bloom
in summers endless
always in the moment
as spring amid a silence
my little wish

I want to live a moment
a child smile
that year there
single life
single breath
straight in blooming gardens

as if it came
as if it never left!

He was the shore.
He wore thin as time passed,
and was as pale as the sand.

And she was the ocean.
Her mind just as vast,
her thoughts just as blue.

And she crashed upon him
one too many times
and then he was gone.

so while the other boys
tug at my skirt,

           buy me beer,

write me songs

           I still mostly
      forget about them
                   when I go
          home at 1 in
                              morning.

But you,
            for some reason

get my hopes up
                in the worst way.


When the rain falls
                and thunder strikes
                    my tired
                               red head


I still wait for

                       the mail to come.


No letters from
                     You yet,


but I can't tear
    my eyes away
          from the mailbox


      Because,

                      I guess that
              would mean



                            giving up hope

                                                 all over again.

And
            
I don't think I
                could do it twice.


I don't think I could let you break me

                         a second time

i cried the other day,
laid my head down on the kitchen table and sobbed

no one was home.

no one was home.


i left wet drip drips on this piece of paper

where i was writing to you a letter
that started with
"Alex-"

and after three pages of anger and sadness
and "why are you doing this to me
why would you do this to me
right when i was finally going to be okay"

i ripped it up

and wiped my face

there was a pile of tissues, just like
all those days i cried in your room

when
you would try

try desperately to wipe away the tears


but we would always look
flustered and wet

like we had just run through the rain

I think and
I imagine and
I pick apart and
I wonder.

I speak and
I stop.
I say
never mind,
I don't know.