I feel like my heart is grotesquely punctured,
Punctured and bleeding, because you haunt me at night,

I feel like my pillow is weightless and transient,
Weightless and transient from years spent in flight.

I feel like my knuckles are bruised and bloodied,
Bruised and bloodied from fighting off the image of your face,

I feel like my body is weak and tired,
Weak and tired, trying to win this race.  

I feel like this poem is futile and ******,
Futile and ******, as I attempt to forget for the millionth time,  

I feel like a prisoner—No way in, no way out,
No way in, no way out, but I committed no crime.

I feel like our pictures are worn and faded,
Worn and Faded, because I stare at them too much,

I feel like my soul is seized and beleaguered,
Seized and beleaguered, because it misses your touch.

I feel like my mirror is false and distorted,
False and distorted, because somehow I look whole,

I feel like my heart is grotesquely punctured,
Punctured and bleeding, my ghost—that’s your role.