I'm so tired of my heart,
The way it breaks and wants and hates and
Feels so **** empty,
Despite all the love being dropped through the mail slot,
Signed and sealed,
Though left unopened in piles by the door—
None are from you.
I'm so sorry, I just can't
Whisper into phones late at night
And hold hands under blankets and
In the backs of cars.

I'm tired of your emails.
Give me longhand, scribbled out parchment;
Show me the ink smudged on your palm,
The ache in your wrist.
I used to think that mysteries were more beautiful than absolutes,
But it's so much easier to love you
In the afternoon—
Windows open, sunlight streaming in,
A warm breeze kissing my neck.

You gave me empty pages;
I filled them with poetry.
Darling, did you ever love me?