is it silly to write you a poem
when we've never kissed,
when we've never spoken,
when we've never met?
is it silly to tell you that i love you
when i don't even know
if i'll ever know you?
is it silly to want you,
to crave you, to say that i miss you?
is it silly that i can't write these verses
without wanting to cry, wanting to mourn
the loss of someone i never had?
is it silly to think that one day
i'll show you these words
and you'll smile when you
think at how things turned out?
is it silly to believe that i won't be alone?

i wrote you a letter the other night.
draft after draft
i shoved into my drawers-
this isn't what i want to say.
this isn't enough.
why isn't this enough?
i couldn't sleep because the words
the words kept eating me alive.
they've made a home inside my feeble
feeble lungs.
my ribs hug them-
keep them warm and snug-
remind them to stay.
i inhale "where-are-you-are-why-aren't-you-here"
i exhale "    "
my words
they sit
and sit
and sit
(i mean, where else would they go?).
i'd tell them to you but there's this thing called distance
between us;
i'd tell them to you but you're right in front of me.
so instead i wrote you a letter the other night
in hopes that maybe one day i'll understand.

i feel like i am boiling.
i'm not sure if that makes sense.

i imagine you in grays and blues
and paved streets and brick
buildings. you are so very much
in your element on concrete and
in architectural feats. i knew you
would not settle (how could you)
with me but i was hoping for a
change of heart change of pace
change of of of of you and me and
some semblance of a future like we
talked about. where is the line
between wanting and needing
because i think i crossed it back in
november the first time you said
my name and squinted one eye
at me that way i like. sometimes i
look east and wonder if the london
air feels lucky to wrap itself
around you. do you ever look west
and wonder the same of me?

sometimes i feel as though
my mind was set
to self destruct,
and i just cant seem
to find the switch
to make it stop.
maybe that's because
it's buried beneath
the very thoughts
that set it off.

I feel like I'm trying to keep it together
for everyone except myself
and I'm eventually going to
explode
or implode
but it still wouldn't matter
because I would be the only one
willing to pick up the pieces
glue myself back together
and clean up the damage
and everyone else's while I'm at it
I was built strong
a sturdy cornerstone
and people need me
they just don't assume I need them too

We live in a world filled with disposable things
made to be used once, but seldom more than twice
with little or no attachment, we consume mindlessly
single-serving coffee or single serving relationships, it's all the same

We've learned to measure value in terms of convenience

Instant gratification comes with a price, but one we gladly pay
disposing of the evidence neatly and quietly, the carcasses
monuments to a purpose well served; vacant hearts never filled
material things only heal wounds superficially, but

nothing lasts forever, right?
*Our soulless smile, just another by-product of living a disposable life