colin kissed hannah instead
and i was nate's second choice
i found out about joe too late
and carson puked on my shoes
wyatt was the first everything
and louis was only a phone call
slade didn't care about my heart
and maklin shouldn't have

you were so much less, so much more
and i know because
it hurts when
i try to write your name.

i told you congrats and good luck today
you said thanks
gave me a song title
and said thanks again
and that was that was that was that
was that?
was it what it should have been
when all i wanted to do
was ask how you were
and how you are
and how you will be
and listen to you talk
for hours
about everything and
nothing at all
like we you used to
but instead i'm stuck
with this ****** song
which is only ******
because it isn't mine
*just like you

while heartache has left me
it still lives in
the threads of your hair woven
into my carpet with the stain
from when you puked up
the alcohol
we bought together from
that bottle on the shelf we
had *** against and
then left the ****** in
the trash can
that still sits next to
my desk
where you taught me definitions
of words like 'wanderlust'
which still slip into my
small talk and
when i'm not careful
they come out sounding more
like heartache.

i don't think that missing someone or something
is defined by the things
that remind you of them
but by the fact that you slowly --
-- but surely
forget those things about them
like their voice
and their laugh
and the way they sang
when they were in the shower
because they thought you never listened
i think it's the forgetting
not the remembering
that drives people crazy
to the point of calling and
hanging up
just to hear that someone --
-- you just came to mind
say "hello"
one last time.

there is a poet with
the same name as my
ex-lover
's mistress
and every time i read her poetry
i weep
because it is so beautiful
but i cannot love it
because i imagine it was strung
by Her
just like Him.

i can start every sentence with
if i were beautiful . . .
and i still won't be

but if i write enough poetry
at least i'll have something beautiful
to show for myself.

I must have had a 'perishable' sticker on my heart when you came along. We are all just dates to best be used by, or, at least, that's what I told myself while you consumed me. I love the way you consume me, in the physical sense that your very presence engulfs my own in a way that makes me nothing more than a piece of meat grinding between your jaws. My insignificance is so significant to you that you tell me about it often, and I never hear the end of of it. I never want to hear the end of it because I think I love you but I only think I do because I never watched my parents love at all, so I can only assume. I want to break lines and talk about you in a cliche way, but you are too much of a run-on sentence for that and the line breaks make me think of my spine under your hands and I can't go back to that. The walls are calling again but this time, I can't bring myself to answer.

The other day I thought about you, and by that I mean that I wasn't thinking much at all. I stare at the ceiling and count the cracks in it and fall asleep only to wake up to the sound of some imaginary rain hitting the roof once. I don't remember leaving my door cracked, but the wind pushed it wide open again. I imagine (I hope) I will find your arm behind the door, but for now it's just another ghost leaning on the door jamb. Your name is the first thing that comes up when I flip on every light in my house, trying to find the source of the noises I swear you're making, and your name is the last thing I can see before the bulbs go out. I'm tracing holes in the wall - holes I've created - and imagine those holes are on you and I am tracing their edges. I have to trace something these days, or the walls will fall from my knuckles fighting them too much, so I take a black pen and trace letters from my imagination and write these things down on paper, bearing down so hard that they begin to carve into the desk, so that not even the wood can forget about you.

I heard a whisper.
a thought like dust
caught the air of my breath
and landed on every heartbeat still beating for something more than themselves.
a rationale.
a stable refuge.
these are the things I imbue.
nocturnal nonsense swirled about
until your gaze caught my thoughts.
I saw your eyes behind mine.
emancipated, delegated, underrated and unillustrated,
how can I better express myself.
I lost myself trying to lose you.
I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders
to your front door step and left it with a key.
Walk a mile in my shoes and still ask me who's the enemy.
I am.
I am my own downfall.
masquerades never suited me
yet I still wore it with agony.
Antagonized from every side,
the lies lie far between you and I.
I succeeded in forgetting something that never happened
and got trapped inside those angel eyes.
remain a nuisance, my misguided matrimony.
gravity awaits,
for we are all destined to fall.

I long
                    like
something plush weeping
         into a pillowed hug

of empty oxygen

though I try the Brave Game,
                                         (and usually win)
               flakes of me run
           off my arms and face
and scrounge around the corners of the room
          
                                                           looking for your mellow sting.

supposedly,
“heartache”
is figurative.
                        But I definitely feel
a              s t r e t c h i n g
mush
right where
the Doctors say my heart
                       should probably be

a slight tremor
(      echoes      )
      through every joint
of my toy frame,
              like a thousand elfin voices talking
                      about your favorite foods,
                      and the color of your hugs.

    the tightening
muscles of my throat
        send their regards to your
amicable eyes

              2.5 is a smallish bird
when one observes
             the blue expanse of my ocean life
but it pecks my most tender tissues
                     when I sit [flat] inside Today.

I miss
      like
someone resized my skin

                                            incompetently.

though I am grateful
for your delicate absence
                      (the elusive Good deserves you most)

I feel as if
the petty bird’s wing tensions
        won’t be satisfied
with the look of my dappled shoulders
till you stroke them densely
with your matter-of-fact fingers.