i get nervous when i think about you-
yet if you called me over tonight i’d probably be there in 20.

i used to write poems about my ex’s marlboro reds-
now i have trouble muttering a word about that parliment
hanging off your lips so eloquently.

i can only pick myself off the ground a few hours at a time everyday-
the rest of the time my fingers are fumbling to the tune of my inner
ramblings of anxiety.

i move around my room arranging objects no one really needs-
for what?
to tune out the sound of your voice in my head
telling me I’m probably doing something wrong-
again.