Nothing broke my heart quite like that time I read what you wrote to her.

It was from two years ago, but it still managed to strike quick like a bullet, even though the barrel was dusty.

If history repeats itself, then I'm the same lips you craved on different person.
You said so yourself. You can't breath new life into old love. Your lungs will collapse before hers start.

You've never been good with words, but I didn't know you weren't good with laundry.

Your words were still wet with her tears before you gave them to me.

You should have left them on the line a bit longer. Maybe the lye of their syllables wouldn't burn my face when I try to bury it in your shirt.

Do you realize what you say when you scream I ******* love you from your rooftop?

Who's ears will they reach first, hers or mine? Because where I hear a promise, she hears and echo as bitter as the wind on that rooftop.

That's why my hips curve in all the question marks I could never ask you.

In two years, will you mail someone else the screams from your piece of sky?
Will your heart still beat in time to that ******* song that you always play when we're in your car?

I'm tired of seeing blood under my fingernails because metaphors and ethers and ink marks can't stitch you up fast enough.

You need patience, but all I can give you are poems about winter, and the spring grasses that follow, no matter what.

You need guidance, but I give you comparisons of how the moon moves the sea, but gets jealous when she kisses the shore.

You need love, but I offer you poems that flow like water and taste like someone else's mouth.

My river songs can't fill the canyons she's left in you.