We’re not so different,
you and I.
Even in the way
we say our last goodbye.
Provoked by hurt that still
makes us cry.
It doesn’t matter since
it was all a lie.

There are words that can't reach me from here
If you simply pluck them from there.

I need to know a person like you exists,
not about what other people say,
not about what you do in order to be like them,
not like losing the one thing you can't have back
in order to become higher than me, not about
breaking yourself for others because you simply
can't fix them.

Once in awhile, someone needs you to be you,
and sometimes, I have to be me to be me.

Let someone know you can be yourself, and it will all be fine. And being fine, is simply alright.

For days, foliage sat by my porch
which I've been waiting to sweep.
But the wind always seems to know what I want.
It always does the work for me.
I've planned on sitting on the couch with you
but you don't seem to sit there anymore,
only the wind does. Only my own air.

I've been accustomed to making two coffees in the morning.
But your full coffee cup always sits there until it's cold
and I always take too much to drink, that I just throw away yours.
It's a waste that even I am accustomed to bringing two plates with me to dinner when no on sits on the other seat beside me.
It is still the air that sits there.

I feel so lonely, that I talk to myself about the things that have happened; of things that never did,
just to hear you respond.
To tell me it was all a lie.
And you never answer me. Only the air does.
Only the wind blows me away.

For days, foliage sat by my porch
which I've been waiting to sweep.
But the wind has been always there,
where you should've been.
And I laugh, because it's unnatural now.
To be conforming to something that isn't even there.

When you hung the decor from the rafters,
       and built these walls with the prints of your fingers;
             proceeded to line the floors with flowers, wedged into gaps,
                  that were inconspicuous until each bud and shoot grew

Speak to me, everything you wanted to say;
          feeble may it be with the dull edge of your knife,
                softened by the mishandled touch of your previous lovers,
                        delicate from your pain, so you learned to be silent -
                                                                ­    
                                                            ­               never swift, never sure.

Your silent words fluttered in and out of sight,
    seared into my home like the etch of fire on word,          
         ingrained till the grains were no longer marks, but my haven
                       please tell, for a long time I've known, all this is true.