We will forget the times I breathed your name into the sky
and made it rain.

The thought of you will become a ***** verse in the anthology of
apologies I figured in my sleep.

I will forget the touch of your skin
in the way you forgot how to love.

Touching you was like static electricty in a dark room,
a makeshift thunderstorm in your fingers,
you had more noise in you than a little heart could handle;
so you came bursting open:
screaming, hands punching the air and gasping
for sanity; they said if you hear God it's probably purgatory
what would they call it
when I hear the windclap of your hips a sonic boom
and the quiet of your eyes like blood rushing to my head
in an anechoic chamber;
would they call it madness or delusion
or a mix of a little bit of both; could be alcohol,
could be love
because when I lit a match
in your darkness,
it burned the whole house down.

There is a dip at the center of my mattress
from night after night of sleeping alone,
gravity, like the weight of loneliness,
has made it sink down.
If the day ever comes that I share my bed with another,
the dip in the middle will bring us closer together while we sleep.
As if I had to endure all the lonely nights just to sleep so close to someone.
I’ll keep waiting for that day,
and the longer I wait, the lower the dip gets.
Maybe one day I’ll find someone to share the dip in my mattress with.

Or maybe I should just flip my mattress.

the utter exhaustion at the end of a book
after not being about to put it down all afternoon
those 5 hours spent out of my world
feeling another person
feeling so much more than I have ever felt as me
my mind so darkened from this overwhelming feeling
the feeling that my life has just ended
or that part of it has
that part that was so much greater than reality

All of a sudden you're on the floor with wet eyes and wet hands
and the only sound in your head is that of screaming
But maybe it's you
And you feel as if you're being eaten from the inside out by your own
malnourished heart
You can't actually breathe because your sobs won't allow it
and your entire body is trembling
and dark red,
fading to purple
You imagine someone holding a knife beside you
Someone who's willing to use it
and it doesn't scare you any more than death scares a ghost
You're sure you wouldn't feel it

So you sleep to fool your brain for a while
But you only dream of him
and things are alright and well and good
and you wake up and you wish you hadn't
Some people never know that your chest
can feel this empty
That your stomach and your throat and your head
can beg and beg and beg
and you can not know what for
And some people don't ever find out
that your heart's physical ache
is much too real
That one would prefer next to any amount of torture
if that heart were separate from his

How I adore your nerve
when you kissed me in your closet upon sheets made of legos
and all of your childhood dreams.
How easy I am for you to draw when you play on stage the song that you wrote me,
The one that feels like rock climbing by the river,
Like naps in the summer when I drool on your chest and you don't mind,
Like kissing you until the very last minute of my curfew,
only to break it for the miracle that is your lips.
How alluring is your breath on my neck,
Your voice in my ear when you told me that you loved me
and you didn't stop smiling,
even as the years went by and I did.
How I craved, longed, begged for time to be still
the time you took me to the highest hill you could drive to,
You called it my mountain.
"At first, you look at it and it's so small,
but once you notice it, it's all you can see," you said.
How my stomach floods with waves of nostalgia and a taste
of everything I've ever had to live without,
With complete and utter spell-binded devotion at the simple familiarity
of your smell.
How addicted I am to your laugh when you're happy and
the mastered impression you do of your mom.
How weak I am to your intellect and your appreciation of literature
and real music,
Your enthusiasm for art and the "name that note" game you force upon me
as you stumble onto the classical radio station.
How in love I am with your romance that is as childish as my attachment
to my baby blankie and my mother's childhood walrus that you never ceased to insult.
Our pajama day that we decided over our prom,
When we turned on John Mayer and slow danced in your room.
Your idea of a date consisted of fake wine and me.
How incredibly warm are the coldest of nights,
On the side of your dirt road as we lie in the snow that is too cold for comfort,
yet holds us there with the fear that one day will not look the same as this one
and I would bear any amount of cold winter to keep one more moment of yours.
How I cherish the way you latch my pinky with yours when we walk
And the face you don't know you make when you play guitar.
The rooftop where you kissed me for the very first time and the string rings
we wore to remind each other we were still there.
How incredibly and unfortunately devout I am to all that I remember of you.