it's  t e n  'o  c l o c k
go to bed
but the night's still young

it's  e l e v e n  'o  c l o c k
go to bed
but i have work to finish

it's  m i d n i g h t
and don't you know, it's unhealthy
to go to bed so late?
mum,
i think it's even less healthy
to be this sad.

I've always hated PDA

but when I see you I can't help but to
reach out and scratch
your beard because its a
really basic human pleasure,

  to touch something and know
that it is yours-

especially when that something
is a someone
and that someone
thinks and feels and tells stupid jokes
and laughs at his own stupid jokes
and is better than me at the
    crossword puzzles we can only finish
  on mondays and tuesdays

I measure the passing of time
in crossword puzzles and the number of nights
until I can fall asleep with at least
65% of my body touching yours because
    I miss you
       any other time

and
all of the sudden
I'm really scared of you dying

I use to hope that you'd keep that
photo of me tacked by your bedside
but you took it down, (vengefully)
I know this because you tore out the portraits
of me from your sketchbook the first time around

so I hope you find bobby pins still within your clothes
catch whiffs of my old perfume on the streets and feel your
spine cinch softly, I hope a single earring rolls forward in the
desk drawer, but I really cannot hope these things anymore.

so i hope the earring stays lodged in the crack, that all stray bobby
pins find their way back and that my perfume is never worn, never worn
never worn. I hope that my perfume is never worn
around
you.

I used to like when he hugged me outside my car for
four minutes, how he wouldn't let me leave even if it
was cold outside and i was only wearing flip-flips, always
after our lips were red and chafed and my hair was a god-awful
mess on my head,

I used to like it when he listened to odd future, when he complained
about how ugly he was when I knew he was beautiful, how he was
worried that I would care that his skin was rough, that his skin was rough
that his skin was rough, but I loved his textures, his angles, his curves, never
smooth, never flat skin.

I used to like his baby cheeks and defined jawlines, how nothing ever mixed
with him, but he was milk and paint and oil. Baked potatoes with broccoli and
thyme, rosemary cloves.

I can't point out where all these things ended.

When I started to complain when he held me for too long in front of the door because
I told him he couldn't hold me in front of the car anymore. It was too cold.
When did my lips starting staying pink instead of red, when did
my hair start staying perfect, when was the last time I had held his hand
without being afraid of some boring, ridiculous reason, when was the last
time I laid in bed with him when was the last time I thought that he was the
best thing to ever happen to me, where do these thoughts go?

Overthinked, thanked, thunked? Did I wear beyond use, does my love have
an expiration date?

and what is it like, dear?
being so in love,
being so convinced that she is all you desire,
that i am not enough to even be close to you anymore?