I'll call you for directions
more times than a normal person should
because I never think to write them down,
and I try too hard to burn things into my brain.

I've been asking questions all my life
and now I'm finally answering why.
Except they're not your questions,
and I like how you know
when I don't want you to stop.

Now I don't think it's beautiful,
because I remember how it felt.

Nostalgia has this sickening grip
that keeps me alive with no sleep,
and I know I'm obsessed with dreams,
but I have perfectly good reasons to be.

I hate it when you love me,
but that's all I want when you're away:

it's meaningless lust for what I can't keep.

I've always been able to hear you through the walls,
but I never realized that you could hear me too.

That's a lie, I knew you could,
I just never thought you listened.

I've been killing myself for you,
staying up late to hear your hushed voice,
hiding in closets, and sitting in the streets,
doing whatever I can,
for the one I'll never meet.