I bought an expensive bind of pages to write my thoughts in.
But the words prefer to fit at the back of my hand,
at the margins of my books,
at the most random places
and hideous cases
- all characters prefer
to rest atop all ironic spaces
- each word calling every piece of missing touch,
each word wanting to compensate
for the oozing weight of not having much.

I remained
a bud,
a pup,
a mere silhouette
of the imaginary.
I limit
the heights
that can be
conquered by my grasp.
Oh,
how I stopped growing
to stay
in love.

What now?
- now that
we have grown
smarter,
wiser,
and
irrevocably
out
of each other?

I've been through a couple
of motorcycle accidents-
breaking my ankles,
bruising my rib,
putting my flesh into
giant assaults of hurting.

I've been pinned down
by horrendous silver needles
on cheap hospital beds
for times I have lost count on.

All of these and more,
were like nightmares
and they still are.
All of these and more,
were sickening phases of agony
I don't even want to remember.

But,
on how is it that each of those ache
resembles the echoes of your Goodbye?
I don't know.
I wish not to know.

I have never been sick enough to die,
before you.
I have never been in an accident
more disastrous,
than you are.

If you ever wonder
how deeply
I feel for you-
Know that
I am shaken enough
by the depth
of whatever doom
I have fallen to-
with bruises clinging to me
as tattoos-
with hurt breaking me
like bones-

There is no such thing
as a bad writer,
just one who isn't sad
- not sad enough.