I think I'll go back to you until
you ******* want me,
but I haven't wanted to
**** myself in about
two weeks and I think
that says something about us.

Or maybe it doesn't.

Maybe this is as foolish
as the time I romanticized
street lights
because a boy told me
he'd be a street light
over a stop sign.

I think about your smile
when I see the sunset,
because nothing will compare
to the night you told me
about where you'd like
to be by next year.

I'm starting to feel like
a stranger every where I go.
I havn't been able to lose
the vacant signs between
my veins, my shoulder blades,
my bones.

People will insist on
making homes inside yourself,
but Goddamit it's
so hard to find light
in the darkest parts of yourself.

Maybe I don't have
to stop breathing to die.
I just have to love you again.