i talk to
you every day.
in my head i tell you
how i feel. in real life we
talk about poems and how our
days have been. i tell you how i went
to the cafe down the street and bought a
coffee and a piece of cheesecake. i should tell
you. i'm less everyday. you chip away at me. you
think you will find heaven inside of me but there is no
heaven inside of me there is only more of me and i'm sorry
for that. it's been two weeks and i already think about
the lines on your palms and if you get wrinkles
by your eyes when you smile. two weeks.
the lines on your palms. wrinkles by
your eyes when you smile.
your eyelashes. if you
have any scars.
i'm chipping away,
away, away. i drink the coffee.
i bring the cheesecake home and it
stays in the fridge for two weeks. everytime
i look at it i feel guilty for not telling you how much
i care. i don't know if i feel guilty because you make me
feel less lonely or if i actually love you. i want you like
i want the books my mother threw away without
telling me. it still feels like that. i know i should
tell you. i know, i know, i know. but i know
you're going to leave without telling me.
without leaving a note and you
won't take your keys or
your wallet or
anything.