1) when you tell him you love him and he says "thank you"
Says "I know"
Says absolutely nothing
Pretend like the cavity where your heart used to be isn't endlessly throbbing. Pretend like you don't crave the words, pretend like it doesn't hurt, pretend like you're not empty.
2) imagine, remember hearing him say the words back. Imagine, remember the way his lips feel pressed against yours. Imagine, remember the sound of his heart beating against your ear when he says your name. Imagine, remember the smell of him on your skin and clothes
3) when you see his family out in the town you can't leave, say hi. Smile, ask them about themselves. Hug his little sister. After 4 years, 3 months, 9 days (who's counting right) you've earned the right to be civil to them. You've earned the right to be friends with them.
4) after 4 years 3 months and 9 days, when you tell him you love him and he doesn't say anything... don't stop telling him you love him. Even though your heart belongs to him, even though the empty spaces in your chest hurt, tell him you love him again. Because maybe one day, he'll say it back.

She removed some clothes
So the hug would
Take.

The innocence was more intimate
Than ***.
Finally held, safe from enemies

On all fronts. I served my time
As a human shield,
If only

For seconds, as sharp claws
Let go and warm, caring hands
Didn't.

°

I'll be summer sandbox for you.
You be child for a while;
Rest as only kids can;

Lulled and safe, drifting away
To the sound of adults talking
Softly

So you'll sleep, despite the fever.
Warm with sofa, blanket,
And *little.

If I were to write a life-long poem
A line every day, so to put on display
The simple happenings of life
To weave verses together, an enduring tether
Of all life’s joys and strife
Would it have rhythm and beat? Skip and repeat?
Or would it just flow easy and free?
Would it charm or would it harm, this rhythmic yarn
That weaves the fabric of me?
Would this rhyme be a bildungsroman?
Charting progress, growth and learning?
Or would it compel, by whom it was written
To not publish but set it to burning?
Lumps and bumps, and dreary spells
Momentary lameness and drought
Every epic has its lows, as any writer knows
‘Tis what life is all about
Would it conclude with pride and nothing to hide
Confident and self-esteemed?
Would it spell to its reader, whoever at all
The tale of life lived and not dreamed?

I see you often in my dreams
And try to remember your warmth.
Sometimes I think I hear you calling me,
But this old house echoes that I am alone.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply;
I smell your favorite gum on my breath.
All at once you seem to be here,
And I hear your old piano sing.
The song is familiar, and I hear your voice,
“Amazing grace how sweet the sound.”
If only it had been enough to save a wretch like me.
The old house again falls empty and silent.
As quickly as you came, you left.
So I sit alone on this old piano bench
In the doorway of your old house
And reminisce.