i keep writing about you, everyone is telling me my words are "beautiful, raw, meaningful" and i don’t know why but maybe it's because all these words are written for you and you’re beautiful in a way, maybe raw is a better word but, what they don’t know is that i stare at this blank ******* page for hours and all i feel is rage a stomach churning, heart wrenching rage, and anger and frustration because i write down all these words but none of them ever say what i need them to say; none of these ******* words i write ever seem to tell them how i feel about you but maybe if actions could be translated into words i could write down me shouting and cursing about you in my car while I'm alone and speeding down the highway because your favourite song came on my ******* playlist again and i swore i could hear you singing alone next to me; i would write me standing in the shower while i let the scolding hot water burn through my skin as i try to think of the exact moment i realized i would never be whole again if i didn’t ******* have you, if I couldnt call you mine, then i would write me shutting off the water in defeat and at an utter loss because i realized i have never even had you to begin with, i've never been whole because you've always had the missing piece; i would write how a fire starts burning in my chest whenever i hear about you and her, i’ve never envied another human being so much before, it's a physical pain that a bullet hole or a train wreck  could never compare to; i would write how my eyes sting as i continue to stare at this god ****** ceiling in this empty room at 3am missing you, being up that late is only fun when you're around,

i wish you would stick around.

i have no way to end this because
there’s no poetic way to say that i feel like ******* **** every time i realize i will never know what it feels like to be wanted by your heart and your hands, i'll never be a name on your list of ex lovers and i won't be a name on your list of hopefuls, either. i'm nothing to you but you're the air i breathe.

I make up
conversations
in my head
constructed from the
words you never
say.

I still can't decide
if silence
would be preferable.

I want you to
pick something.
It can be anything:
integrity,
last Thursday,
your grandmother's
socks.
I don't care what it is
but I want you to
pick that something
out of all the
other somethings
and I want you to
believe in it,
I want you to
scrunch your eyes
up tight and
slow your breathing and
put all your energy
into that singular
belief.
And while you are
busy believing in that
something
I will believe
in you.