Even the oxygen
thrived off of breathing
her
*in

I* don't love you,
and this is not a poem,

though if I must say,
I wish I was the moon

so you could look up at me
everyday (when I'm still in the sky,
just not visibly there)
and every night

and I wish I was the cup of coffee,
you held up to your lips every evening,
feeling each chiseled curve,
and every layer of the skin
that resided there.

I don't know,
I guess I just wished that I was the things
that touched your skin each day
and/or the things that were in your
every day routine

Write
until your thoughts become words
and those words become spelling mistakes
and those spellig. Mistakes make sense
to everyone ecvept you
and your worfs become jumbled
and make no sense
and are illeterate
and until they make no sense
to anyone
except *you

I'm longing to fill
th(e)mptiness
inside me
with things
that make me
think of you

you lived
off cigarette smoke
instead of oxygen

I mean, you were toxic
and I absolutely loved it

and sometimes,
I wish I was an addiction;
your addiction

I mean I wish I lived
with a body without blood

I first saw you in a coffee shop:

you were a few feet away from me. your feet tapped absentmindedly underneath your crooked chair while black and blue pen ink residue resided on your fingers. Your eyes were reading a newspaper yet your mind was paying no attention to the words. I was in such deep thought studying you that my heart skipped a beat when I saw your eyes glance up at mine. You started studying me instead of the crinkled worn out paper in your hands. A smiled played across your face as the radiant warmth of it touched my eyes—