He wakes up
to a bottle of *****
these days touched
against his cheek,
cold and empty,
and he tries to recall when
the last time she’s been both
and can’t remember
it makes his head ache
He curses, a slight wave of
Panic,
then remorse,
then, the calm.
The alarm hasn’t rung,
The clock hasn’t wind past four-thirty
And he hasn’t felt complete since the day she left

there are songs
she skips purposely,
and there are songs
she plays on loop,
but she thinks of him in every *******
one, like a reminder
that she hasn’t
washed her hair in days
but she’s brushed her teeth
too many times today it starts
to tear
at her chapped lips

if it ever crosses your mind
how i never wrote you letters
how i haven’t written you into a poem
please understand
that there are things words cannot paint
no combination of any phrasal collection
will ever be enough
to show the rest of the world
what a masterpiece you truly are
to prove my affection, such a connection
is never enough
words merely underwhelm the feeling, you
understates your existence
so i choose not to write



until i realized
until i learned
that love is no art, no masterpiece
it is not the way your ears turn red (when angry)
not the accusations you throw at me for lying
definitely not the kisses you give some other girl
no, it is not
and so for the first time, and not the last
you are written
you are in words
you give me reason to write this
my heart is not your canvas
i am not your muse
if it ever crosses your mind
how this poem is not in your mail
how you never read this
please understand
that there is no reason for me
to be wasting
exactly two hundred words
for a boy who’s forgot how to love