Call #1:
I was excited. I was going to tell you about the new friend I'd made. She sits next to me in rehearsal and has a pretty laugh. And the girl two seats over who had long hair and funny jokes. Or the blonde on my right who had great music taste and a contagious smile. As soon as we had a break, I dialed your number. It rang three times, you didn't pick up.

Call #2:
We'd just finished rehearsal. I turned my phone back on, no new messages. But I wanted to tell you about our conductor with the sarcastic comments and the irrelevant analogies. I was going to tell you about the breakfast buffet or the church campus we were on. I dialed your number, it rang three times. You didn't pick up.

Call #3:
You called back! The conductor was calling us back inside, our break was already over. We exchanged mutual apologies and goodbyes. I promised I'd call back in a half hour. And I did.

Call #4:
We were finally out for lunch, I dialed your number. It rang three times. You didn't pick up.

Call #5:
I shouldn't have bothered. I had nothing left to tell you. I just wanted to hear your voice. I dialed your number. It rang three times. You didn't pick up.

Call #6:
It's dinner time now and I don't want to eat. I know it's late where you are and you're probably busy. This time I even stopped to listen to your voicemail greeting. It wasn't the same. I sat through dinner waiting for my phone to flash with a message, a missed call, a voicemail. Something to show you still cared.
And it did. I eagerly flipped my phone over, it wasn't from you.
I spent that day clinging to the hope that maybe you'd call, maybe you'd remember. You promised.

Call #7:
It's after midnight. I'm on the balcony. The air is cold and I'm crying. Even if you'd called, what could I have said? Would I tell you my ex girlfriend is a dropout? That my insomnia's come back? That I nearly fainted during rehearsal, or that I was actually proud of myself for only having four nervous breakdowns?

The one time I felt like I needed you most, you weren't there.
I waited all day for a call that never came.

I was going to leave a voicemail, on that last call. I had climbed onto the railing, looking down at the street. I wondered what would **** me first: the fall to the ground, or a broken heart. I called again. It didn't even ring.

If you'd answered...
Maybe I would've told you that I'd twisted my ankle when I finally came down from that railing. Maybe I would've told you that I couldn't eat at all that day because I was too hurt. I could barely fight the tears hard enough to choke back a glass of water. Maybe I would've told you how everyone stared when I spilled my coffee because I couldn't even see straight. Maybe I would've told you how stupid I felt that I was even crying over you. You're a friend, nothing more- so why the hell do I care so much?
Maybe I would've told you. But I didn't. You broke your promise.

And maybe I'm obsessive, maybe I'm annoying. But I called seven times, and on the last it didn't ring.

Doesn’t it all get to me in the mornings
Before i’ve eaten anything
before I’ve done my hair and makeup
i build up my walls and open the gates
because someone promised me
id get something today

but it was all for nothing
because its over before it started
and now I’m alone on the couch
with a bottle of irish coffee
waiting for the pills to kick in

Wounds still hurt
words still sing
Heart's still break
blood still bleeds

You wish it all away when you throw out the christmas tree
but nothing changes when the calendar does.

I'll never know which way her head turns first when she hears my voice, or what stupid jokes make her start laughing all embarrassed, idk what it feels like to hug her, idk what kinds of foods she likes to snack on, idk what she looks like when she's tired, idk what random moments can make her smile, idk what she shakes her head at when she overhears a conversation, idk if she leans on a desk before she gets up or if she scoots out her chair first, idk if she picks her nails, idk if she lips when she gets an injury from basketball, idk what her hands feel like in mine, idk what shampoo she uses and what her hair smells like and how short she is compared to me so i can kiss her head and- i could go on. But it's the little things, you know? You two have that and I don't and it makes me sad

Hands, everywhere. All over her back, in her hair, on her neck, on her hips. Pulling her onto a desk, pulling her face close, pulling her hair back. Lips, everywhere. On her own, at her neck, on her hips. Eyes, everywhere. On her face, on her body.

The desk, cold and solid against her back, hands hot on her thighs. Lips soft on her neck, fingers rough inside her. First one, slow and easy. Then two, pumping rhythmically. Then three, stretching her to her limits. Lips left her neck, a bruise to remember them by. A hand grabs her hip and pulls her forward. A head between thighs, breathing her in. Soft, timid lips on her skin. Two hands spread her thighs apart and a tongue tastes her, hot and rough. It makes a home between her hips, tasting every drop of her anticipation.

A different hand meets her neck. Another joins it and pulls her in, leaning her forward legs still apart with a tongue buried inside.