city streets won't tell me what sunsets spent without you already know. they can't whisper like our hushed conversations--pillow talk on the highway is for gypsy lovers but we're not caravans because i'm the only one drifting.  i'm lost as ever, and in being lost, i'm so free. i am directionless yet i'm yearning for the taste of living. does it taste like your skin? i wouldn't know. there's a certain loneliness that clings to each 2 a.m. pondering. i ache. i ache and i ache.

i always had fondness for lying in an ocean bed since waves were a warmer blanket than most arms i have known. drowning is a fantasy of mine but i didn't know it was just as possible to drown in a person as it was in the sea. riptides have nothing on you.

i could tell you i love you, i could. I always will in some capacity. "what-if's" cling to the roof of my mouth for much longer than peanut-butter sandwiches and lunch time. i make myself sick with remembrance. i dream about your eyes. you're far away from me, reaching for a pillow, or maybe even another set of hands. i ache.*

and i know they told me otherwise, but love is a question, love has never been the return reply.