I think of her body,
of her curves
and curls
and I blow a line as long as my finger to think of something else.
Anything else.

I think of Freud and how wrong he was,
I think of Clapton and his false credit,
I think of the ringing in my ears and how I wish it would stop,
anything but her hips and her blonde hair and her fat ***.

Help, I've fallen and I can't get up,
and god, it was hard enough to stand up the first time.

I'm so excited!
I'm growing up!
I'm so excited!
I'm throwing up!

I pay taxes!
I have a job!
I pay taxes!
I'm no slob!

I'm looking for an apartment!
I'm finishing school!
I'm looking for an apartment!
Being an adult is cool!

I cut down to two packs a week!
I have a savings account!
I cut down to two packs a week!
I smoke a healthier amount!

I get high!
I can't sleep!
I get high!
I'm in knee deep!

I get high!
I can't sleep!
I get high!
The ***** deep!

I get high!
Or else I can't sleep!
I get high!
Or else I can't eat!

I'm an adult!
Life is great!
I'm an adult!
I'm full of hate!

**** me now!
The stars are bright!
**** me now!
My head isn't right!

I hate myself!
I love you too!
I hate myself!
I love you too!

I'm full of stress!
I can't rest!
I'm full of stress!
God ******, I'm doing my best.

a map scrawled in the dirt,
with a broken stick
held by a broken hand
controlled by a broken mind
being kept alive by a broken heart.

It's not beautiful
because it's broken
(stop romanticizing my primordial urges)
it's beautiful because it's the nature of it.

stop romanticizing my primordial urges.
I wanna hit and hurt and destroy and **** and **** and maim and desecrate and consummate end eradicate and emasculate and ******* and I wanna push you up against a wall and feel you on the inside and I wanna push her down a flight of stairs for making me feel the way I do for making my **** hard.

i want you to feel this

I feel myself decaying.
I count the cells dying;
there goes a brain cell,
and there a lung cell,
and there a mass ****** of skin cells,
a genocide of nerves.

I sit in dirt, wearing ***** clothes.
I live in filth.
I devour sunshine
and **** apathy.

I just don't care.
I have 14 cigarettes,
an eighth of shrooms and 30 dollars of ***,
and that's only counting what's in my coat pockets.

I'm dying,
but you call it living.
I'm suffering,
but you call it the best years of my life.

Don't tell my mom where I go when I say I'm going to Liam's,
it's not that she wouldn't understand,
it's worse.
She would understand all too well.

Chug a beer,
and another,
count only the cells dying that don't regenerate,
just as the trust you find in other's won't.

Tuck me into a blanket of ****,
and kiss me goodnight.

I've been busy
too busy to write.

I'm too busy loving you to write you the love poems you deserve.

I'm too busy working so I can have money to buy you the things you like to write you the love poems you deserve.

But I'm going to continue loving you,
continue kissing and holding you,
I'm going to continue being yours.
I'll never be too busy to love you.

Who needs love poems when you're in love?

I'm just a pool table floating through the cosmos,
a snail racing in the indie 500.
I'm a mess, ******* on dirt, lying in a basement,
the Click! Now that I have mastered the click I can free my mind of all misconceptions.

I'm a grubby snail person.
Dos Bros Tacos,
served with a hard shell.
I'm a cigarette, trying to hold water in my mouth, and you're a jar, trying to make me spit it out.

I'm a vegan, with primordial urges,
a user, with blood rush surges.

I'm matter, quickly vibrating,
an organic compound, slowly decaying.

He stood with his hands in his pockets,
J-Crew haircut perfectly resting atop his head.
He stood with his hands in his pockets making sure it was still there.

He could feel it, which reassured him but until he was rid of it he could not be entirely sure.
Sure of himself, sure of his love,
sure that life was good and that he would make it.

He loved this thing but it was not his love.

And so he stood, waiting for the boy.

The boy came.
He came like lightning with no thunder; tremendous at first, but increasingly lackluster the closer he came.

He motioned to the boy and the boy increased his pace.

From one pocket to another the thing was exchanged.

He finally breathed once the boy was gone.
For the first time in three years he breathed.

He got in his car.
On the highway he felt an odd sort of peace.
An endless stream of cars passed him, yet none followed and none were in front of him, they were all entering, he was leaving,
for good.

One missed call but no voicemail.
I would say we're playing phone tag but I can't shake the feeling that you only called so you can say you never gave up.

This isn't even poetry anymore but did I ever write poetry about you?

I wrote poetry about girls and the weather and sometimes both and I write angst filled strings of thought about you.

Call again, I'll hear the phone ring this time, I promise.

Let's hangout,
old friend,
you, me, and Ellis D. Martini.

Let's roll in the grass and pretend we're six again, let's release our imaginations from responsibility.

I once saw a black widow
so I killed it.
I found its eggs and killed them too.
I found its sister and brother, mother and father, I found its lover and I killed them all. I used a broken broom handle and woke with bites on my ankles, the broom handle cared not to be used for ******.

Let's drink all the orange juice we can find,
and call me Nancy from now on, you can be Shirley.

Surely, Shirley, I'd love to hangout;
You, me, and Ellis D. Martini.

Call me Oedipus and let me call you mommy,
**** me hard and kiss me lively.

Act like Freud and dream about my ****,
spread your legs and let me have a lick.

Kiss me like Hemingway, short and sweet,
like the sun and the horizon, eternally we shall meet.

We watched a movie today.
It was lovely, full of pastels and romance.
The plot was immense, the casting, superb.

I enjoyed the movie a great amount.
My favorite part was the part I missed because I buried my face into your neck.
I didn't want to leave.

It was one of those days
when the sun was like,
"I'm gonna be real hot today....extra hot"

I saw some birds fly underneath a truck.
by their banter,
I could tell they were excited;
"Ah dude, this shade's sick"
"Yeah dude. This shade's tweet"
And it's crazy cause those
blaring days sometimes turned
into vicious attacks by fanatical
rains. They always wanted my face.
The drowning plants under my
Econoline shoes place their infants
on my laces. I'm afraid to open the door
because of the black widow near the
doorbell.

I once broke one.

It was autumn,
or at least I think it was.
The leaves were changing color
as were you.
It's funny, the way memories linger,
associate and disassociate with senses.
Smells;
the wild flowers.
Colors;
the deep reds of a changing season.
Sounds;
the crunching of dry leaves.
Touch;
your hands.

It may have been autumn,
or at least I think it was,
but I'll always remember you as the Autumn Girl.
Not my autumn girl,
I was merely a vessel
while you were a lamp to be lit.
I was in the dark
while you crossing great expenses of water.

That pond was so small
and you were so magnificently
immense.

For he's a jolly good fellow,

adorned in yellow and love,
it was hard to see his face through the smoke of a three blunt rotation, but I could feel his heart beating from across the trailer.

Worn out eighties music was the unofficial theme of the night and I think we lived up to the expectations Eddie Murphy set for his.

God forgives all trespasses,
but can I?
What do I have to forgive?

I'll not forgive you because you have nothing to apologize for.
You've been absent, but you have your reasons. You have your struggle and I have my love.
For you, for her, for my little sister, for everything around me.
I'll be there for you always, I'll spare my bitterness that has so often been flowing out of my pores. You don't deserve it and it won't help.
Help?
If you need some, just ask,
I'll not pass judgment for I wish none to be passed unto me, God knows one could judge me, least of all you, for the way I've treated you.

I'll be there for you,
although it's hard for me to look you in the eye.

You needed something to occupy
so you could feel loved
and you chose my heart.
Gladly I opened it for you.

You were lonely when you kissed me,
you kissed me because you were lonely.
I kissed you because I thought it was the right thing to do,
kissing you was the wrong thing to do.

Now, you're no longer lonely and you don't need me. You've found other people to make you feel loved and now you can spare none for me. ****, you can't even call me back.

You make me feel stupid and naive.
Stupid to love you
and naive to think you could ever love me back.

Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.

She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.

I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.

She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.

She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.

Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;

With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.

She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.

She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.


Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.

I'm a vampire girl and you're my meal,
you know that you are.
I'm ******* on your neck,
like it's happy hour at the bar.
Wait, that doesn't make sense,
who drinks alcohol through a straw?
To each their own, just as long
as your quick on the draw.
Gunslinger,
shooting down clouds like *****,
popping pills,
turning fake nerds into mince-meat.
Shepard's pie,
with extra cheese,
thank you very much,
did I forget to say please?
Where are my manners?
You know I adore you,
I'll do that thing with tongue
and you know I'll show you.

Feeding bad habbits with love,
and rotten tree stumps with alcohol mixed ***** and *****.

Gasp for air,
breathe in poison,
exhale C^02
and bad dreams.

******* with death
and disillusioned junkies desperate for one last hit.

Fall forward,
catch yourself,
repeat until you have
and reached your destination.

Breeding hope
and sadness until you're not sure what you're hoping for
and what you're sad about.

Sleep alone,
wake up alone,
and spend all day searching
for someone to be alone with.

You're cute
and you're beautiful, and while these may be mere words, they are true.

I want to hold you and squeeze you and kiss you forever. My favorite place is wrapped in your arms and my favorite plant is the one you gave to me and my favorite kisses are the ones you give me and I'm not sure why I'm saying this. Maybe it's because I haven't today, or maybe it's because I'm aware that I have an audience. I know you'll read it and I know Kota will read it and Liam will read it and so will Chloe and so will strangers in Florida and strangers across seas.

I want someone I've never met halfway across the globe to know how much you mean to me and how sweet your kisses taste.

I've been finding it terribly hard to write more than disillusioned rants and I've been finding it even more difficult to sit still with my thoughts.

I think about you a lot and it never fails to make me happy. Never. But I can't think about you all the time, and those moments late at night when I can't see the moon for the ceiling and I can't hear your voice for the time negative thoughts linger. And usually I let them vent, like a man professing his love by writing it in wet cement, I put thought to hand and pen to paper but now... I don't know.

I can write about you and God knows I do. God also knows I have not and hope not to run out of things to write about you. But there are other things in my mind that I wish to let out but I can't. There's a purple liquid slowly amassing to a sizeable resivior in the bottom left corner of my brain; I can feel it. It's where I store my doubts and anxieties but it's been dammed.

I told you a
while ago that I listen to sad music
when I'm happy
and happy music when I'm sad,
but my friend,
that simply is not true.

at the time I believed it,
because, to put it simply,
I was in a numbing state of sadness,
emptiness and drug use.
But oh God how happy you make me
and how happy I've been.

Now, with a sober mind
and I happy heart I realize
that I wasn't happy,
but I listened to sad music so I could be sad.
Let me explain;
I went to school (high)
and needed to appear happy
so nobody would question my heart.
It's something I learned when I was alone
and had nobody to question my heart.
and then when people started coming back into my life
I wasn't able to stop.
I put on a mask,
smiling,
constantly smiling,
joking, smoking,
loving.
and i only took it off when I was alone,
listening to my music
about love's lost
and hope's crushed.

The truth is that you make me happy,
I'm not wearing a mask,
and I haven't listened to Bright Eyes in weeks.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.

It's a laser light show!
Fit for all ages!
Just don't look too hard at people's faces,
you'll see how strung out they are.
Pick your poison, smack, speed or stress,
we got it all.

Bring your daughter!
Bring your grandma!
Just don't look down the back alleys,
you'll see kids shooting dope,
and mother's selling their bodies.

Inbreds!
Racists!
We got them all,
come and see them before the city locks them up.
But wait!
For a limited time only,
get a free half gram of baking powder with any order of ******* (you must purchase at least one gram for the offer to apply).

Two words,
that don't mean much.

Put them together and you
gain a little more meaning.

These words,
nor any other i could write,
would ever be able to describe
that which i feel for you.

You make me happy,
and adding a title to our happiness
makes it all the more sweeter,
and i could not tell you why.

But i don't need to,
because i can feel it,
and i try my best to make you feel it
and ******* it, i think i do.

He is far away now.

Since I first wrote about him,
we've grown quite a bit closer.
Reading poetry in his smoked out van using hushed tones.
******* can be a verb but to him it's an adjective,
he'd use it often;
"I ******* love that girl, Nolan"
"That's the ******* ****, man"

We crouched under an awning,
cigarettes in hand, trying to escape the rain.
We needed to read no poetry then,
we were poetry, him and I.

He'd put his arm around me
while I vomited.
He understood I was sick because of seeing her with him, it had nothing to do with *******,
but he was more than willing to pretend.

I miss that man,
Bertran the Man,
who stands with cigarette in hand,
atop his white van,
hearing the cheers of those not fans.

I love that man,
for he is good and whole and poetry

I need to stop writing about you,
hoping for things to change.
I need to start writing poetry again.

First Night (First Dream)

She is warm and she is soft.
She is a warm soft place that I like to be
and want to continue being in/around/with.

I dreamed of the first time her and I made love,
except it was different.
Everything was tinted blue
and there was less blood.

Second Night (No Dream)

Third Night (Second Dream)

You are warm, but I cannot remember your warmth.
I remember the touch of your hand
in likeness to the color of your hair;
orange and sun streaked.
But now you are gone (or leaving, I'm not sure)
and I'm begging you to stick around.
In my dream we were sitting on your neighbors porch,
kissing as we were that night.
Only this time, I was out of body, lingering around the Christmas lights,
screaming at you to stop,
because I knew I would not listen,
but you might.

Driving back, I couldn't wait to get home.
Now I'm home,
smoked a couple cigarettes,
took a shower,
started a load of laundry
and it took me a minute to realize
all I really wanted was not to come home,
but to come home to you.

I'm getting better,
slowly, a day at a time.

I still think of you but not as often.
I remember the good times,
but they're always marked with
an aftertaste of longing.
Longing for what?

Friendship.


I can't listen to No Doubt
anymore without thinking of you.

I cried last night,
for the first time
since the day before.
I was thinking about the best thing to do
and i decided (as I have a hundred times before) that it's to give you space
and let you come back,
if that's what you want to do.
I cried because I don't want to lose you
but I don't want to push you away.

You boop my nose,
and kiss my mouth.

You hold my hand,
and put my mind at ease.

You leave bruises on my neck,
and make me happy.

I do these things for you too,
and it makes you happy.

I like you.
Yes, quite a bit I do.

Just about as much as I like the stars,
and quite a bit more than I like cars.

I like you as much as a like the trees,
it's safe to say that you're the bees knees.

I like you more than I like drugs,
and one of my favorite places to be,
is wrapped in one of your hugs.

Two weeks drug free.
I did it for myself,
I did it for my sister
for you
and for her.

Cravings don't wake me up at night anymore.
I can hold a cigarette without my hands shaking
and I can look my mother in the eye.

Where are you to share in my sobriety?
Where are you to help me through it?
(Where are you?)

I remember the day we met.
Not the date, but the day.
Your best friend was dating my best friend and considering they were our only friends in the sixth grade, we spent a good amount of time together.

I haven't seen that friend in years and I doubt you've seen yours in just as long.

Please don't let that happen to us.

"If any negative thought lingers, he let it vent.
Wrote this one with his ******* in wet cement. "*

I don't want to lose you
but I can't continue trying this hard.
I can't put forth the effort to maintain this,
when you give none.
I can't think of any more ways to say this
so I'll say it simple: I love you and I'm losing you.

It's hard for me to believe the things you say.
It's hard for me to think of you
without a hint of bitterness
intruding upon the smell of jasmine
that you left to linger in my mind.

I wish things were simple;
like they used to be,
like they should be.

I wish I knew what complicated things
(I know what, I wish I knew why they complicated things)
so I could fix it.

I'm the same
and I can't help but feel that you've changed.
Changed as people do,
nothing wrong with that
(nothing wrong with that)
I just wish your changes didn't include
cutting me out of your life.

I'll be here,
waiting in my room for the phone to ring,
but I'm tired of leaving you voicemails
and I'm tired of waiting for a call,
and I'm tired of being tired.

I've been good,
my life has been good
and you've been gone
and it's hard for me to determine  
if I'm happier about that which has been going on
or sadder about you being gone.

What's one more pill to a man who's taken thousands?
It depends;
if you're running out and you drop one under the fridge, it's enough to move the fridge.
If you've taken eight but can't seem to fall asleep one might just do the trick.
If you're trying to sober up one might mean starting the cycle again.

Maybe someday you'll be lonely and understand how to be a friend.
Maybe you'll give me a call.
Maybe I'll pick up or maybe I'll have a new friend.

I don't want to write about you anymore
and maybe I'll stop.
It's not a question of what happens on my side but a question of what happens on yours.

The bed was rocking so,
the movement of our bodies
caused my Rosary to fall on your face.

I'm not sure all that I want for you,
or all that I want from you,
but there are a few things I am certain of.

From you I would like a thousand more kisses,
two thousand more hugs
and maybe three more thousand kisses.

For you I want happiness. I want you to not have
to worry about him, be it your father, your friend,
your could-have-been lover.

But I understand that you need to figure out
how to not worry about these things on your own.
I can only wrap my arms around and hope to help.

For you I want happiness.
I want to be there for you
and for you I want happiness.

I wrote a poem about you in my mind.
It was short and snappy and sure to hurt.

Why?

I still love you
and nothing can change that.

I don't want
to keep running from my problems.
I want
to stop getting high every time I feel any form of
guilt
remorse
sadness
anger.

I want to stop whining
and I want to start doing.

I want to think about flowers
and French music
and I want to think about you
but I can't and I hate myself for that.

I hate that I created all my problems
and here you are,
the most lovely human being I've ever met
and you didn't do anything to deserve your problems
and I can't ******* help you with them.
I can't help you with them
because I get high anytime a negative doubt lingers
and I get drunk if I can't sleep
and I cry if I'm out of ***** or dope
and I really really like you and I only want whats best for you
and I want to do everything I can to make you happy.
I want to pick you ten thousand flowers,
all of which will pale in comparison to you,
and I want to write you ten thousand poems,
none of which will be as grand as yours,
and I want to give you ten thousand kisses,
because you deserve them
and ******* it,
I like kissing you.

Above I said that I can't, but I lied.
I can, I will, I am.
I'm getting better

Alcohol, marijuana, and opiates just weren't enough,
I had to breathe deeply and slowly and snort some white dust.
Boy, that did it; rubbed clean my brain, got rid of that rust.
Cause it's get high or bust
and alcohol, marijuana, and opiates just weren't enough.

Now I'm wondering what's left;
a broken promise or three,
I'm sorry I didn't mean it,
but I meant it at the time.
I'm trying my best but I really need some rest.

The higher I get the closer to God I become.
I can feel him, coursing through my veins.

I promised you I would get sober
but you left

For being being high and
way too cool,
we're sentencing you to
an eternity in hell.*

Down here, they got nothing to sell,
and even if they did, sell it they would not.
I was banished, sent down here to rot,
got a dude shooting up,
staring at me with a lot of snot
dripping from his nose,
nobody is telling him where his little sister goes,
cause if they did, shoot it they would not,
he's the guy with the dope
and dope talks
(and nobody walks).
He gets what he wants when he wants it
and if you were to tell him his little sister
****** your **** for junk you bought from him,
brother I'm afraid you'd never smell roses again.

Not that you would,
there's a terrible lack of pretty things
just poetry, and rap songs to sing.
Knock on wood, cause you got what I don't,
smoke it while you can,
cause I will if you don't.

Oh ****,
I'm bad at rhyming,
please step outside while I prepare a hit
of something strong.
Boy its been too long
since I stuck that needle in my arm.
A ****** in need
is a ****** indeed,
and oh ****,
that's just plagiarism,
you'll let it slide, this ain't ******* journalism,
just keep your mouth shut and believe in my cynicism.
Watch out though, don't get overwhelmed by your egotism,
oh ****, that ain't fair
rhyming ism with ism
but boy, life ain't fair.

My father told me what I had to do,
you gotta think long and hard
about why the sky is blue.
Broken bottles produce glass shards,
all out of junk, better sniff some glue.
When I first started using nobody said it would be this hard,
hell nobody said anything at all. except for you.

Now I'm just desperate searching my vocabulary,
accidentally stuck the needle right through my capillary,
I want blood and money: My Life As A Teenage Mercenary.
Don't worry, they got the good **** down at the apothecary,
make you so high you can fly like a fairy.

I must be bored, nothing I'm saying makes any sense,
no please don't show my sister, she might call me dense,
she'll remove the shrouds, destroy all the pretense.
Robbing my moms purse, scrounging up a few cents.
Hell if I had any sense I'd stop writing now,
call God and return him his crown,
but he's uptown and I'm downtown,
a sad clown
a dad frown
a mad ballgown.

She remind me of a flower.
In that she's pretty and makes me happy.
I want to pick twenty thousand flowers for her
and litter them across her room where they can dry up and get ground into the floor.

Everything takes time
and time takes everything;
Flowers, feelings, people.


I'm not sure why I've been thinking of flowers so often recently.
Perhaps I've been using them as a means to forget you.

No, not forget. I could never forget you.
To take my mind off you.
To take my mind off destructive things
and instead onto something pure
and calm and not sharp

I need feminism
because men are more upset about people saying "all men"
than they are about the fact that 1 in 4 women will be ***** in their lifetime.

Not harassed, not catcalled,
*****
And that is not okay.

I need feminism because out of the four women
I speak to everyday
two of them have been *****
and all four of them can't walk to their car
without sticking their keys through their fingers to
feel the slightest inclination of safety.

I need feminism
because the other day in my math class
a student said "She was asking for it"
and the teacher agreed.  

I need feminism
because when my father wasn't drinking
he was telling me to be a man.

I need feminism
because the way my father taught me to treat women
was to get them drunk.
It's not his fault,
he knew no better.

I need feminism
because my father knew no better.

I'm always talking, baby, talking too much
I love that little girl and I just can't get enough*

I don't know how to deal with these feelings.
Feelings that have lain dormant for years.
Like a volcano of biblical strength
my love exploded all over her neighbors porch
and now I need to pick up the pieces.

I've been searching for something to distract myself.
I took some pills today.
I spent half the time promising myself I won't start using again
and the other half trying to buy more dope.

I need something to ****
and I need something to snort
and something to drink
but what I need
is to stop letting this affect me so ******* much.

This isn't your fault,
for ***** sake
this isn't your fault.

This is me and my inability to handle any sort
of pressure,
like a ******* ******* dog,
I pull on the leash and pull on the leash
until my owner beats me into submission.
Five minutes later I'm pulling on the leash again.

I got it all wrong,
I know I did.

I see now that every time I assume something
about you
and your actions,
I am wrong.

I assumed you were apathetic;
I was wrong.
I assumed you were distracted;
I was wrong.

Now I'm assuming that you're coming back
(Oh God! please tell me it is so)
but can't help but think I'm wrong.

I've written three poems tonight,
and each one ended up in my waste basket.
Sometime after writing the third,
and giving up for the night
I realized what was wrong.

I wasn't writing about you.