I found her in her room
scattered across the floor,
in piles and in heaps,
shoved in corners,
hidden under the bed,
amongst the trash and the relics.
I discovered her in it all.
In her room, I learned who she was.
We both found her there,
as she sorted through it with me.

I wrote a tragedy with our lips.
The story of our affair was filled with pages of your fingertips fluttering across my skin.
Paragraphs covered our hidden desires to embrace what we pretended was ours.
There were stolen kisses between the eyes of the public eye;
Metaphors to mask our immorality;
Chapters filled with our indiscretions;
Never quite reaching the ****** we would have called love.
I crafted a leather bound catastrophe of your infidelity where the bookends were our lips, and between them rested the arc of our lust.

I wrote a tragedy with my lips
the story of our love
the pages of your hands across my skin
paragraphs of our hidden desire
our stolen kisses written in-between the lines of the public eye
the ******
metaphors to mask our immorality
chapters filled with indiscretions
the leatherbound catastrophe of your infidelity
the bookends were our lips
and between them was the story of our tragic love

Have you ever been so tired
that the words won't come
and sentences won't form
and it's hard to communicate
the simplest ideas
because you're so
*exhausted

"I know everything," you say
looking me in the eyes,
testing me with an arrogant smirk.
Yet, you question
what's wrong with me.
Funny, how you think you're right
when you really don't seem
to know anything at all.

Awkward tension
hangs in the air
like the stale smell after the rain.
Every once in a while
a silent glance between us
shows the hurt,
or in your case,
a very apathetic expression.
Don't look at me like that.
What happened to the "I'll always care"?

I still get butterflies
thinking about
the first time
we held hands.