I wanted to be a poet, so I folded myself into an envelope addressed to the moon and asked the man what he thought about your sweaty palms after our first kiss. He was quiet for a minute or so before he asked me, "do you love him?" I gulped. As if my gulp was enough for him, he went silent. He didn't ask questions, names or numbers. He didn't give advice that made me wish I hadn't spoken at all. We just stood there for a very long time and he finally broke what was such a loud silence with a sentence you may never understand. He said, "you're not a Poet, you're a Lover."

I said I’d never write about you again,
but I suppose I’m just as good at lying
as I am at leaving.
I’ve forgotten what your voice sounds like.
I always criticized you for not letting go,
as if the weights around my ankles
weren’t made of my faults
and everything I wish I could take back.
You told me today that
you’ve found love again.
I hope he finds flowers growing
from all the cracks I created
in your heart.
I hope he sees galaxies
in the darkened voids
I left behind your eyes.
I hope he understands
that you are full of splintered doors
on rusted hinges
that need to be loved and not repaired.
I hope he is nothing like me.
I’m sorry my words left scars.
I’m sorry my silence
reopened them constantly.
I’m sorry I was too busy
loving myself,
instead of loving you.

I’ve been around long enough
to know these wounds don’t heal.
I will wake up tomorrow
and put down half a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide,
hoping the void inside
my chest won’t get infected.
This ribcage is missing
more than just bones.
The black hole I met
in my living room
decided to stay for dinner.
He said you’re doing great.
I poured another glass
of regret and told him
that’s ironic.
I’ve realized this is just what
“okay” has become;
fists embedded in sheetrock promises,
sitting alone in the rooms where
everyone told me they would stay.