that coffee gave me a headache and I don't have any sunglasses or ****. this isn't a poem. I should go back inside.

Today just isn't that day.

it hurts more to not
it has to

I’ve sat with this screen open at least a dozen times in the last few days (like I used to) but the only thing I’ve managed to get out is the words I miss you written over and over again

he reaches one arm stretched underneath
my neck and the other he drapes loosely around my shoulder, meeting his hands in the middle and effectively holding me
his chin digs into the curve of my spine and his breathing is shallow, as in if I turn to grab something I will wake him up so

I don’t move. I hold my breath, I listen to his dog whine, I gather all of the questions I have that I’ll forget by the morning,
I should be writing a lot about the first man I’ve ever loved but all I can think to say is
this is not me
I do not write happy poetry

I love to write about people that can’t be bothered to pick up my phone calls

but I’m alive
important distinction
that sometimes I can’t make out
I tried to reach out to my ex in an attempt
to analyze my previous relationship patterns
but they ignored my call
so I guess that told me what I needed it to

I’m very jealous of you, for so many different reasons
maybe that’ll be the next poem I write