There is not enough coffee in this world to keep my soul awake,
not when I cannot sleep most nights but rise before the sun,
and my eyes sting sharply every second they are open,
unable to stand the brightness of the world and its people —
not when it is plastered over misery and poverty, and hopeless hearts.
There is not enough sunlight in this world to light up what we bury
in the dark, with memories and bodies and time capsules,
not enough band aids to cover up the pain our mistakes have caused,
and there can never be enough time to undo regret.

I live in the constant knowledge that I was not enough
to change the world, or myself in it, or to make you understand
that despite being eloquent, I am not articulate enough
to describe how I feel, about you and this planet, both filled
with endless riddles, and pain, but, inexplicably, also love.