I think I maybe breathed
in too much of you and
now you're trapped in my
lungs, clawing to get out.
But I can't
I can't I
can't

I
have
written
one
hundred
twenty-
seven
poems
about
you.
Please
­let
me
go.

you always tell me that
life is long but I'm not
sure it's long enough
for us to find our way
back to each other.

you

slow



          down



                            time,
­
make me notice

the
soft
things

that otherwise
I wouldn't see.
like the

cracks on the
back of your
hands and

your end-of-
the-day stubble.

thank you for
making me
pay attention.