I look at you and I keep thinking that you already know.

I’ve told you so many times in my mind, but in reality I still ache and I wait.

I am writing poems for you that are as long as Russian novels, but you’ve never read a word.

I build my heart up with bricks, one for every piece of you that makes me feel less like a ghost.

Do you see what you’ve done to me?

Even my vital organs are made of you.