3am and sometimes
i think the ceilings are split
from the weight of your
words, cold. last november.
but my lips
are cracked from the taste of
your
apologies, like wet ashes
on my tongue. tomorrow's cigarettes.
i pray to god
sometimes. i ask for one
more chance to remember how your smile looks like
on rainy yesterdays. brief thunderstorms.
i miss you.
your hands are sand
and i spend the entire time
trying to hold onto them but they slip
out, from the gaps between my fingers.
i feel as if i am chasing smoke.
i feel as if i am chasing you.
i am chasing you.
but i don't know where you've
gone, and not a single
navigating system in this world
could tell me where you are.
i break one.
i try to find another, but
the store says they're sold out.
outside, i find a pile of broken
ones by the trash can and lonely
silhouettes walking down the left side
of the crossroad.
because they know if they have to find someone,
they musn't go the right way.
3am and sometimes
i find myself brewing coffee
in the kitchen,
and i forget how many teaspoons of sugar
you'd always add to your cup.
so i don't touch the spoon.
3am and sometimes
i wish you taught
me how to forget you before
you left.
i brushed shoulders with you
the other day,
when the lights were green
and we were both crossing the road.
i don't
think you recognize me
anymore.

part I:

remember when the walls are
bleeding from the way he says "i love you"
so gently
it feels like his hands
are loading the gun as he distracts you with his lips,
but you close your eyes
and don't move.
the barrel presses to your nape.
he doesn't
shoot.
remember when the floors are
telling you to stand up,
stand up
your knees are hurting but you are debris at his feet
and he doesn't step on you.
chapter one
is when he shoves you against the wall and you forget to breathe.
chapter two,
he doesn't kiss you.
remember when he opens the door after
not coming home for two months and tells you not to
wait for him anymore, but you do
and he starts to come home
everyday
for a week.
you haven't seen him
since.
chapter ten is when you take your things
and leave your ring
on his coffee machine.
epilogue is when you come back
and fall asleep
in his unmade bed.
the ring is where you've left it four years ago.

part II:**

we talk about abandonment like
secondhand sweaters in a thrift store,
thinking about
someone else's arms and
someone else's lips against your neck.
pay for it,
leave.
the moments you spend curled
up in bed and picking at the loose threads
of what another persons has
decided to move on from, you are wondering
what it means to finally let go.
every eighteen days
you return to his front door and
try to remember
how it looked like nearly
three weeks ago
but everything seems the same.
you walk right past again without saying "hello"
and you can see him
through the kitchen window brewing coffee
the way he always does at
7 in the evening.
i talk about abandonment in the
form of repetitive mistakes
but recently i've realized that
it wasn't deja vu.
everything was just me.
it hadn't been fate
at all.

theory:

1 // don't fall in love with the girl who has grey eyes reminding you of fragmented moonlight and of fluttering high tide against a silver shore.

2 // don't fall in love with the way she tucks her hair behind her ear just so she can appreciate the way your voice falls like ethereal windchimes over her trembling heart.

3 // don't buy her flowers; she'll keep them even though they've wilted.

4 // don't tell her she's beautiful; she'll spend hours trying to find her name in its definitions within every dictionary she can get her hands on.

5 // fold her paperplanes and watch her fly them off the tops of skyscrapers but don't allow her to follow where flight fails her.

6 // trace your name over her skin only with your lips, because it will be more permanent than ink.

7 // but don't fall in love with the girl who has a shattered smile, she'll be here one moment and gone with the next monsoon.

when you said that i'm not your “cup of tea”,
it had me trying out every type of blend
until i got so addicted
i couldn't stop.
i suppose i forgave you then because
you've always been the kind to like
Lipton with milk and sugar
but i prefer my earl grey black and unsweetened.
that showed me how literal your words could get.
once i tried to add creamer and sugar cubes
into my cup and i cried
because it was horrible and i'm sorry you had to
have your Lipton strong and bitter for a few months.
you should have told me earlier,
you didn't have to scald your tongue.
the other day i saw you with her
and you were happy.
i couldn't help but notice she has beautiful skin
and that her smile is gorgeous.
it's all right because you've finally found
someone who's your “cup of tea”.

you don't have to explain.

i know you spend 2ams thinking about someone who hasn't thought of you in the past few months.

i know you spend 3ams staring at the kitchen wall wondering why you didn't buy more coffee.

i know you spend 4ams sitting with your back against the mirror for fear of your reflection mocking you.

i know you spend 5ams curled up under blankets wanting to fall asleep but too afraid to wake up.

i know you spend sunrise with the window open and your eyes closed as you pretend that the day will be all right, that you'll be all right.

you don't have to explain, i know that your smile is the remnant of summer as the days grow colder, until it parallels the subzero continent that is the hollow in your chest.

when my mind is a scattered mess
all i know is
the way your lips move when you're forming
the words “you're beautiful”
and i will never hold on to anything
harder than i do your hands when i feel that you're
slipping away and i'm slipping away and
the ground is split between the tips of our shoes.
when i feel as if the sky is falling
there is nothing more comforting than being
under the shelter of your torso
and the reassurance your kisses bring and
the way your lips flicker over my collarbone
as you whisper that i'll be okay
and we'll be okay
and everything will be okay
because i don't have to worry about
anything, anything at all.
when the morning is cold all i can remember
is the weight of your arm over my waist and
i am safe and the curtains are drawn and
the memories from last night aren't remnants, but novels.
i hope one day
i'll be able to return your “i love you”s
with something more permanent and confident
than “thank you” and maybe someday i'll be
able to say it back to you but for now
i am a broken wave
and that is why i insist we take walks at 3am
since my affinity with lampposts is defined
by the way i can safely tell you
to look at our combined shadows
and promise that
we can be one if we just try.

do you still remember when we knew enough about each other to spend wednesday nights lying side by side on deserted highways counting stars that we can't see and catching the other staring at us every time we turn our heads. you'd tell me about monday and i'd tell you about tuesday and then you'd play our favourite song and pull me up and say, "may i have this dance?" there are no cars and no lampposts and it's a new moon yet the darkness finds us tripping over empty ***** bottles on those giddy all-alone nights. now when i see you this is the memory that reflects in your eyes, and sometimes when i look down i see your feet tapping to the sort of music we'd never forget and then my heart will ache to waltz with yours.