Sometimes, I feel like being a magician.
I’ll open my box full of wonders and curiosities, and I’ll pull out the stacks of old birthday cards that I have received throughout the years.
I’ll fan them out like a deck of 52.
If I had you pull out a card, I’d already know who it was by the way that your hand hesitated to touch it.
He writes his love on postcards, and she writes hers on lined paper.
You see, guessing who the cards are from is the easy part.
Making them reappear is what I haven’t mastered.

I can’t forget you.
The both of us share a face.
I can’t see myself.

Everything has an ending.
Today, my shift at work ended, and I walked to my car. On the way home, I listened to Balance and Composure, and I thought about their breakup a few months ago. Two years ago, my friend and I saw them at the Mohawk. I wish that I had known that it was going to be the first and last time I saw them live. I would have gone a little crazier, I would have stage dived, and I would have brushed up on the lyrics a little more.
On the drive home, I also had my window rolled down. The sunset looks prettier without glass in front of it. I thought about how days end, and how, on the end of this particular day, I didn't cry on the way home because my sadness had temporarily ended. I started thinking about the ending of more things.
High school had finally ended, and I had graduated. I was eighteen now, and being a child had ended as well. Friendships have ended, and there have been times when I wished that my ending would come sooner. There were times when I didn’t want to see another sunset, hear another morning dove, or get myself out of bed. There were times when I wished that I could drown in the crowded hallway’s sea of bodies. Sometimes, when I read I count how many pages there are between where I am and the end of the book. I wish that I could just be patient, enjoy things instead of worrying about when they’re going to end.
I think about the future too much. I think about the inevitable. I wish that I had known when the last time was going to be the last time.
I would have stage dived, I would have told you that I cared for you and made you understand that, I would have told you that I loved you, I would have spit in your face and told you to go to hell, and I would have gotten the courage to start a conversation with you instead of biting my tongue out of fear that I would say something stupid and stutter, like I do every time that I get nervous.
But I’ll keep the window rolled up so nobody has to listen to the music; if they don’t ask, then don’t tell. I’ll keep quiet. Does the end of something even matter if nobody cared enough to be a part of it’s journey?

Should I be trying to repair the bridges that she so easily burned?

If you are afraid of the unrequited, there is a chance you might have learned it from a parent. and you were probably young; children are too impressionable. it lingered in the air and echoed through the silence when you asked your mom when you were going to see dad again. the word “unrequited” is a taste bud on the back of your tongue that will always remind you how even the sweetest things turn sour.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you will start to type a message to your friends because the loneliness has become to heavy, but you will always be stopped by the sour taste of trying to swallow your pride.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you might apologize for yourself every day and tell people that you wouldn’t blame them if they cut you off. maybe being alone will feel a little easier if you are certain you did something to deserve it.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you might go out in public to make sure you are seen,

talk to yourself to know that you have a voice,

watch strangers converse to convince yourself that everybody has somebody, even you,

you might write poetry to try and teach yourself the lessons on the love that was never requited to you.

You won’t live there forever.
One day, you will leave this place, and you will
take all of your things with you. You will decide what to keep and what to throw away.
When you are cleaning out your home,
emptying your room,
what will you do with my skeleton in your closet?

There’s an “e” in your name.
2. It’s also composes a syllable of it.
3. Things will always empty, no matter what. Even bottles, for example. Especially ones that contained alcohol. You seemed to enjoy emptying those quite a lot.
4. Once, I emptied a pen of it’s ink while writing about you.
5. There is no “e” in my first name, but you pronounced it as if there was, replacing the first “a” with an “e”.
6. I always, and still do, get annoyed whenever people mispronounce my name, but never when you did it. I always knew that you were the one calling it. You were the one thing I was always sure of.
7. The other night, I tried to think of other things that started with “e” and “a”. I found “always” and “eventually”. Just as you substituted the “e” for the “a”, we substituted “always” for “eventually”.
8. Or maybe it could stand for “eventually an alcoholic”?
9. I just wish that you could have emptied your heart out to us just as easily as you could empty a bottle down your throat.
10. Ever since you told us that you drove home drunk I’ve been thinking about writing an eulogy.
11. Please don’t make me write one. Not while we’re so young.
12. Eventually, everything expires, like our patience, our vitality, and our days.
13. You haven’t spoken to anyone in months, and I don’t know how to reach you, or if you even want me to. When I saw your mother this past October, I wanted to ask her if she knew had badly you had been struggling, but I didn’t because I know that you would have hated me for it. There was a reason you had tried to keep your addiction a secret.
14. The letter “e” is the most used letter in the alphabet. How can you ask me to forget you when nearly every word I write has a trace of you in it?
15. I would never pick up a pen again if it meant that I could hear you mispronounce my name one more time.