You never saw me grabbing your letters
I threw into the fire only moments ago,
trembling as I kissed my burnt fingers.

You’ll never know how I can’t befriend
anyone who has your name,
and how I have to hold back punching
any blue eyed boy who so much as looks at me.

You never saw me giggling at nothing
in a bar at two in the afternoon
where they said you used to work.

You’ll never know how I envy
the girls with kissable collarbones,
and how I always knew where your lips
wanted to be.

You never saw me singing about love
on broken pianos and out of tune guitars,
but you’ll hear about it someday soon.

You’ll never know that I spent my last dime
on replacing the gold watch you lost that was
handed down to you by your beloved grandfather,

but you left me before I could give it to you,
so I gave it to a homeless man who pawned it
for a pack of Camels and cheap beer.

You never saw me ride the subway
all over town trying to find the love
you buried underneath the tracks,

and although you may know me more now,
I suspect you will understand me a lot less.