I am so sick and tired of
The poems
And the journals,
And the words,
That I write
That are not me.  

I am so sick and tired of
The sighs
And the noises,
And the breaths,
That are not
Mine to keep.

I am so sick and tired of
The dreams
And the talks,
And the conversations,
That never last
Long enough it seems.

But I can't find it in me to be sick and tired of
Your heart
And your eyes,
And your hands,
That know just how

To love me.