talking to you
is like writing with a red pen and
expecting black ink.

no matter how many times I tell myself
it's always going to be the same and
absolutely nothing has changed,
I run back to you and hope that
you will eventually
give me the metaphorical black ink
I've waited so long for.

I'm longing for
the black ink to spill out in the form of
"I miss you too, I'm sorry for everything I've put you through and I want you to come back to me"
(and that you'll actually mean it)
and I want that ink
to stain my lungs and my mind
I want that ink
to be laced into my skin as a tattoo

but unfortunately,
you can't give me that blank ink.
it's by no fault of your own;
you're just simply a red pen
and I guess these days
I'm colorblind.