If I still had your number,
I'd text you.
I'm not really drunk enough for it though,
but I don't know.
I'd like to tell you a few things.
Maybe that I'm sorry.
Or maybe I'd just send you a quote from Robert Tew.

This one:
"Sometimes you have to love people from a distance and give them the space and time to get their minds right before you let them back into your life."

But I don't, so I won't.
Just so you know,
I'm not okay with how often you find your way inside my head,
so I'll just write another soon-to-be-deleted poem instead.

Art is like the ultimate hand shake.
They say you can tell a lot about a person from their grip,
but so much more is said by what they create.

You made so many promises that you didn't keep
You bought me this promise ring
It used to fit so perfectly.
And it used to shine, just like your promises
I find it funny now that we're finished,
This ring no longer fits.

What a funny thing.

Time does not erase
nor can it heal,
it dulls, like whiskey,
the edge of real
sins and griefs,
but they remain,
living souvenirs
of our human pain.
Try as we must
to drive away
the debts of hurt
and not to pay
any attention
to the lingering woe
of scars incurred
in the long ago,
the best we can do,
with a brave face,
is bind them tight
in a secret place,
in a shabby box
that sits apart,
in the dusty attic
of our mortal heart.
  - mce

The hate is killing me.

These cigarettes hate you.
This beer hates you.
These shots of brandy hate you.
The blunt hates you.

But I swear I still love you.