I'm going to the city on Friday
while I wish still that I could be holding your hand.
I realized a while ago that most of my poems
are directly addressed to you.
Take that as an honor, take a bow.
Take my hand and shout
you didn't want me every second of every day,
just when the weather was warm in the morning.
I want to tell you I'm done
falling against my dresser drawers
getting scratches on my back from anything
(except future lovers.)
I want to let you know I'm through
with scrolling down my contacts, clicking you
and giving up hope before it even rings once.
I want to inform you that I'm tired
of sleeping alone mentally with his arm around me physically
and the confusion that fills for when my heart quivers a bit when he-
let me stop there. I want to make sure you know,
I'm lying. That when
he looks into my eyes I feel nothing
but guilt.
That could very well be because I can't see clearly
through the tears blurring my vision,
when I try too hard to let go it leaves me scrambling
to my feet to catch my breath but it seems to have never lost me.
I'd still like to garden with you, wander New York City
you looking handsome and me looking pretty.
I'd still love you to be in my bed ev-er-y night
your breath on my neck
my eyes towards the ceiling tiles,
and they'll smile
because they already know your name.