i wrote you a letter the other night.
draft after draft
i shoved into my drawers-
this isn't what i want to say.
this isn't enough.
why isn't this enough?
i couldn't sleep because the words
the words kept eating me alive.
they've made a home inside my feeble
feeble lungs.
my ribs hug them-
keep them warm and snug-
remind them to stay.
i inhale "where-are-you-are-why-aren't-you-here"
i exhale "    "
my words
they sit
and sit
and sit
(i mean, where else would they go?).
i'd tell them to you but there's this thing called distance
between us;
i'd tell them to you but you're right in front of me.
so instead i wrote you a letter the other night
in hopes that maybe one day i'll understand.