i.
every moment with you
feels like another memory
to keep me warm at night
when you leave again

ii.
every jacket i take
loses it's 'you' scent a little faster
or maybe you just stay away longer this time

leaving me with a jacket smelling like my empty room  

iii.
memories and jackets and "this number has a voicemail box that has not been set up yet"
you have spent more time in my dreams than in my arms
this isn't how i thought love would be

we were on the phone really late
and i'd rather hear your voice next to me
but this will have to be close enough

the conversation lulled as we both started to yawn
and i hoped after we said goodbye you'd dream of me

we said goodnight and you said 'i love you' first, this time
i said 'i love you, too' with a smile encasing my whole body
and you said 'yeah-yuh'
like me loving you too meant you won the jackpot

and i have never felt more like gold

i read and reread telling myself i'm checking for grammatical errors
but really i'm just trying to get a glimpse into myself

i never quite meet my own eyes between the lines
and i wonder if it's even me behind the words
or just a keyboard trying to make sense of itself

i paint things gold quite often,
does that mean i hide my problems behind shiny coats of denile?

i overuse the word rot,
does that mean i'm just waiting to decompose, eaten by the mold of my own terrible decisions?

i used to say bones more than i said love,
does that mean i feel like a skeleton without a heart or soul? or maybe love is what wore me down till i was bare;

i used to say love more

it's like flicking through my old playlists

why do i only write when i feel like hiding? or rot? or bones?
i wish i could write when i felt like flying. or music. or even just

human

i graze the comments with a loving hand
thinking of all the people that broke in the same places
thinking of everyone feeling like rotten bones, hiding from their demons
and clinging to the hope that it was sympathy and not empathy
that brought them close to my wilting garden of poems

i hope

and every tear stained poem blends into the next
the ink bleeding

i look at the scars on my fingers and i see myself
i listen to my voice singing songs from an old playlist and i see myself
i feel the flesh covering my bones and i see myself

and i don't write it down

the knives that slit the dandelions from your fingers
cut into my sleep and burn the insides of my eyelids black
i know it isn't the same hurt, but that hurts more
all i wanted was to paint your fingertips gold
but they bleed red rose petals in my nightmares and
wake me too late

the memories draping over your face like a bridal veil
don't hide your tears from me
please let me take them from your head
your past has an ugly face
full of broken promises that made a little girl grow old too fast
don't keep your pain in your pockets in place of your dandelions

i know this is why i learned how to sew
at the time i thought it was so i could quilt my thoughts together
in a way that made sense
but seeing your bleeding fingers in my dreams made me realize
that my needle wasn't for the fabric i bought
it was for skin and bone and bleeding hearts that mean more to me than gold