it’s easier to write bad poetry about you
then it is to pick up the phone
and ask if you miss me too

so I don’t
I lay awake to the songs you left
I burn the candle that smells like you
I sit and I cry

Because I’m too in love with my own sadness to ever say I feel the same way about you

memories come in flashbacks
your hand in mine
your face across the table

I could have them all back if I wanted it bad enough
but when, my darling, have I ever really wanted anything?