If I could only sit still, I would write a million words about us, about you, about me at the bottom with my hands on that rock.
Scratching my fingernails against it so that I could go home and complain to you about how much my tiny hands hurt, and how I could not hold them in yours.
If I could hold my train of thought, I would type out a memoir about you and me and the time we decided to make love in a parking garage elevator late at night, my back against the glass. And who might’ve seen us while they walked home.
Their names and their faces, all those people that aren’t us. I would write about how when those doors opened, the world outside had changed and so had we.
If I could keep my fingers steady, I would dial your number on my telephone. I would cry your name into the speaker, and I would wait patiently for you to take me back.
I would be on hold forever.

I used to find comfort in my thoughts. The ones that whispered to me, telling me that you were indeed looking at the same moon I was, letting me feel for just a moment that we were together again. I believed in the story told in the stars. The tales that danced above me, they used to give hope. They told me that I was small and my problems were smaller. They sang of how I was not alone and I believed every vile, sweet word. My blindness and your loveliness had intertwined to become my distorted view of love and ******* it if I didn’t love you with every fiber of my horrid, broken heart. But you were damaged in your own way, the crack running down your being was impossible to see. Even after I cut my lips on the edges of your broken heart while trying to kiss the hurt away I still didn’t see. Still didn’t feel. Every day the scarlet rivers they grew. I was killing myself trying to save you. Bleeding out with every kiss to your irreversibly shattered heart; your razor sharp soul. You pierced every vein, replacing me with yourself.. The most addicting drug dulling my senses. Loving you has ruined me, it’s taken from me things I miss. Like being able to see stories in the stars.. Instead I’m isolated. On a planet filled with self absorbed souls. Stupidly wandering about wondering why they’re unhappy. I’m left cynical, jaded but aware, able to see that the spark in my eyes is gone. And now when I look at the sky I hope that you aren’t looking at the same moon I see. Because such beauty shouldn’t have to feel the piercing stares that you use to give to me. Such quiet wonder shouldn’t be made to feel worthless like you made me feel. But then again, we are small.. And our problems smaller. Who am I to believe that insignificant you could ever hurt such a large moon? I don’t feel hope when I look at the sky anymore, no, I feel envy. Because they are untouched, untainted by you.. They did not change.. While I can barely recognize myself.