i can’t
write about you,
so i write about how
all my favourite teams are
chosen by the colours i like,
and how i like to sleep with
my blankets in the shape of a person
who i like - but haven’t met yet.
how my memories get so fuzzy,
i can’t remember the feeling,
but get faint spells over emotions.
how i am the hardest, worst person
to love, but the silliest person to know.
i write about how my thoughts lie to me,
or lay too long with me, sort of like this
terrible actor in my own life forgetting
all the lines to move forward,
but i don’t, and it never ever
gets better, even when i
write about you,
i can’t