your skin was a manifesto of its own
your heart beat; somehow always
sounded like a busy tone
because I'm tired of using your veins
like a telephone
waiting for you to just pick up already
and say hello
with a certain sense of peacefulness threaded throughout your voice
like an air of perfection that would always be
a little too far out of reach

and I wonder if you know that each
and every morning I make one too many cups of coffee
one for me
and one for a chair that's been empty
for weeks

I wonder if she watches you play
chess as if you're opening a safe
and I bet she has no ******* idea that
your hands can create
catastrophies
and laughter can turn into
screams
in seconds

I want to tell her that legends know nothing of love or investment in one another and as hard as he's trying
if he tells you he never loved me
he's lying
because there's no denying
that at two in the morning
when you're cold and lonely
and the only thing you want is to be touched by something other than
your own boney knees
that a certain sense of nostalgia is laced within the air of your bedroom

I'm not sure what I'll do when the flowers on the front porch start to bloom

we planted them together in the spring

I'm still holding you true to your word
that thunderstorms only bring
beautiful things
dandelions and daisies and maybe

eventually

a chair that's not empty
holding hands,
and kisses
between coffee