There was a boy in the library who reminded me of you.
(His eyes were dark, and yours are light)
And he laughed at his book,
the kind of laugh you can't ignore.
(Hair like night fell from his head- not like yours, dear.)
Maybe I loved him like I love you, darling.
Maybe he loved me like you
used to.

The most I can do for you is wish you well, and I don't want it to be that way but it is.
I want to mean something to someone, and the most I can be to you is the one who didn't work out quite right. I'll never be your one and only, or your first time, or your last time. I mean nothing to you.

Sometimes I wonder if it's just
boredom
driving our emotions.
I wonder about the thoughts in your head
that make you want to run your chilly fingers
down my spine,
and I wonder if love is supposed to make me feel as
empty
as I do.
I wonder:
do you love me, really?
Or are you just tired of being alone.

I woke up next to you.
I woke up in the pre-dawn darkness and saw your eyes flutter beneath
your eyelids, saw the curl of your hair
on the pillow, watched you move beneath thin sheets.
And I heard you breathe and felt your heart beating
and was content
in knowing that we were
both alive.

There is a phone in my hand,
black and square and shining,
and I wonder if this means it's the end.

My grandmother always said that you would do
anything for the ones you love.
She knew you well, she did,
and now, I wonder if the absence of you is
supposed to be my sign.
It's easy for her to talk about love.
(Her husband crossed the ocean to tell her
how much he needed her.)

So what does it mean when the one you love
won't even pick up the phone and
call you?

I know what it means,
but I still think of your voice through the receiver
and wait.