librarian type
who feels with the mind

with a thirst for knowledge
her eye on pleasure
starved for romance
and desperate for depth

you never stop reading

your passion is your work
and you work with passion

you don't stop reading
but the void doesn't fill

but the day will come
for worse or better
that you find me

like a book long forgotten

riddled with dust that
covers the complexities
but familiar to the touch

my soul, my words bare
yearning for the feeling
of your fingers on the pages

heart in the abstract

waiting to be the warmth
that holds you
the voice that quiets the others

waiting to be dissected
and understood

i wait to be with you

Your scent lingers
on the 200 thread count sheets
we bought the day that it rained
and perhaps it was the sky
shedding a tear
because we mustered up the pocket change
to have a warm bed to sleep in
at night.
I didn't do the laundry
and I probably won't for a while
and I'll tell myself it's because
I don't have enough pocket change
because I can't tell myself the truth.
Today I unplugged the refrigerator
in the apartment
I couldn't afford the electricity
because I couldn't muster up the pocket change.
It's been 6 days since you left
with a backpack of clothes
a bus ticket
and some pocket change.

I write to make things make sense for me.
Even if what I write is about you, it never is, really.
Writing is the one thing I allow myself to do just for me.
So much chaos, and such a desperate need to see clearly.
Putting traumatic events and rollercoaster emotions down in writing, down in order, helps more
than letting nagging thoughts eat me alive behind my brain's closed door.