this is the poetry which has no words
to manifest itself
this is the empty Sunday
to remind me of the last
happy Saturday
and the way only one of them
feels real and it's not the one
you'd want it to be
this is the everything
and the nothing
and I thought I knew what I
was signing up for
but I was wrong
I thought I'd never get the chance
to love you
but I was wrong
the universe gave me my chance
gave me your hands
to touch me once
and everything after felt so right
until it didn't anymore
and then I was left with the skin
that belonged to you
and the way I can't deal with the fact
that this skin still belongs to you
and I miss you with no words
in dry deserts of poetry books
that I know you would love
in the same way that you
couldn't love me
and the way I can't write about this
because you took all the
poetry out of me
because this was the only way
I could make you real
if I could just leave you here
in words and in spaces
I could touch you again
but I can't write about this
and it hurts
and I love you and it hurts
and right now, sitting here,
I am the child I once was
a lifetime ago
crying for the arms that were
supposed to hold me

and it hurts
and it hurts
and it hurts