My biggest mistake
was protecting you
from everything --
but yourself.

I will write ****** poetry
until the day I lose
the ability to sense,
the strength to feel,
the will to care,
and all memory
of ever possessing
any of the three.

I have become quite preoccupied with stomachs.

Ones that have skin stretched taut,
so thinly across that you can see every lie
they've ever swallowed.

Ones that shake
when the body laughs,
little waves threatening to spill
every emotion.

Ones that are held in,
too shy to reveal
the extent of their reach.
I have found myself reading them --
the depths of the creases,
the heights of the curves,
the shades of summer that
fade with fall.
They must mean something.
The contents of each
were not left to chance, no,
but were calculated decisions,
influenced by money, desire,
and calorie counting apps.

And I wonder,
what does my stomach say about me?
What did yours say about you?

I see too many roses
to not believe
that this city
is in love with me.

You are full of empty,
And I still don't know how that can be.

I'll get you to laugh,
and you'll forget for a minute.
I'll lay by your side,
and feel you struggle in it.

When we're together,
it's you, me, and your other.
When I gaze at your face,
I can't help but wonder:

Do you have space for me?
Love for me?
Anything to spare for me?
as I see you battle daily,
with this intruder I cannot see.

You can't stand my love
and don't want my pity.
You withdraw from the moment,
from our home, from this city.

You are full of empty,
And I'm still figuring out how that could be.
You are so full of empty,
is there any room for me?

You called me a goner,
yet I am still here.