So often I can’t breath with my heart in my throat.
I walk with my eyes on the ground
Wondering what the answer to you is.
When I should speak
I pick up my pen instead.

So often you are at the beginning and end of the ink that runs my papers.

When we talk, something meaningless usually,-
Though still I smile-
Though I still shake-
My heart falls straight from my throat to my gut.
And I have a new sickness.
I know the word for it.
I know it well, thanks to you.
But I can’t say it-
Write it, not even here where you can’t see.
Because now, I feel like I’m not allowed to.

I’m not.

It just makes me more sick.