It’s Thursday night and we just saw each other for the first time in five days. We smoked a cigarette and talked about all the things we could think of that didn't have to do with you and me. I mean, why talk about things out of either of our control? Before I saw you I put on my colorful socks because I know that you like them. I sat and listened to you talk about school and tests and began to think how she already knows this. Everything you’re saying is simply a regurgitation of sentences you have already told her. We leave and you say, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” even though I know you won’t. In my room I light a candle and watch the wax form a pool at its base. I begin to wonder: if I sipped all the wax would it harden in me and keep me together? Would it keep this exterior of mine whole? You were the one thing holding me together, and now you’re gone. And the only thing I can seem to do is write poetry about you. I know my poetry is mediocre but you’re the only person who makes me feel like it’s okay. As long as I can remotely translate your stare into stanzas made of midnights and coffee, I don’t lose myself entirely. Because if I can still remember what it feels like to be loved by you, I’m not totally lost yet.