Words aren't bandaids
for wounds of the heart
and promises aren't plane rides
against the distance that keeps us apart
Your absence is the loudest sound
I keep its' echoes for when you're not around

You can only send
so many postcards
before words like "love"
become a language so dead
your own tongue has forgotten how to speak it
You can only mend
a heart so many times
before "irreparably damaged"
becomes a definition on its' label
before you start to pretend
that the space between them and you
isn't tearing the two
apart

how can it be
with so many around
I still want you here with me

You cannot build a body
solely from pretty words