I use to write to you.
All the time you were there,
For every little thing I had to say,
You lied around waiting.
I kept you waiting,
And waiting,
And waiting,
And you were there waiting for me to write to you.
And then I replaced you.

I completely immerse myself into you.
I walk into clear depth. I know what I am getting myself into.
I am lost.
As I flow down stream I imagine maybe I could find myself. I could be separate.
And as I approach the edge, I jump.
I fall, right back into myself realizing that I could never be separate from you.
I am myself.

I am every piece of art you have ever encountered. I remember the poem you wrote but you didn’t finish it.
Instead we talked about the last time we seen the cat.
She isn’t around much and you aren’t either. I’ve seen you on stage before.
Everywhere that you go, you notice me even if I’m not actually there.
It’s odd how I’ve become the man that’s holding the door open for you at the gas station.
I’m the light that sits on the horizon and the unmade bed.  
I knock again. Still, no answer.
I’ve gone and the only thing you see are the shadows of your soul.

We wish we could preview the outcome.
Emotions put up for auction.
Mine were showcased
in something less than a bullet proof shield.
Yours were heightened by puffery,
how I received it as is.
Loving for what it's worth,
understanding for what it means.
Could I have put you on reserve
until the appraisal was determined,
before you undermined my stand.
Where things were taken out of context,
maybe I misunderstood the condition of sale,
or the misrepresentation of don't ask don't tell.
I was bidding on lust, betting on us,
getting caught up in love,
when I never even had the option of winning.