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The world wants to pull us apart
They want to rip the love from our hearts
They want to here our cries
Just as we begin to thrive

The world says we are too far
Because we don't have a car
But my love reaches across borders
It doesn't diminish with orders

You hold my thoughts
And I hold yours
To hard we have fought
just to close the doors

I love you 30 miles away
The same as 30 centimeters.

faces like yours aren't meant for touching
and i'm beginning to think that closed-casket funerals were created for you
and sometimes the overwhelming desire to share something of yourself with someone--with anyone--is too much to bear

and suddenly i understand every spraypainted feeling under every freeway
or sharpie sentences scribbled in bathroom stalls
or muttered comments or notes in library books or songs on repeat played a little too loud
and i understand why pretty girls write stories on their arms

you were never the type to tell the truth
you were always talking
you never understood the way i looked at my feet when you laughed or how i spoke in hushed tones


some days are better than yesterday and some days make me question tomorrow
some words make me question you

today i wonder what the bigger sin is

is it your lying?
or my hopeless belief in words i know aren't true?

words are meant to be spoken and hands are meant to be held and love and sorrow and anger are meant to be felt and enjoyed and EXPERIENCED
and everything has meaning
everything but you

I will not write about you.
I will not write about how you send me to
Places I have not been to in quite a while
With words that revive the comatosed
Butterflies in my stomach

Nor will I write about how your hand behind
My back sends goosebumps to my heart
Up and down like strumming guitar strings
A song I would not want to end

I will not write about how you caress my thigh
Making me wish the hands of time would stop
For a moment, so that yours would still be on me

How your chin is like a puzzle piece
That finds its way perfectly upon my
Shoulder as we ride up the escalator

I will not mention how many times I have wished it
Was not "you and me", but "us"

No, I will not write about all of that.
I will not write about you.
I will never write about you.