You used to ask me why I never wrote about you,
or for you.
I wrote about him,
poem after poem,
about his mouth
his hands,
his solitude.

I never wrote about you,
because I didn't have to,
you were there beside me,
held my hand when I felt
underground.
I notice,
words come easier
when no one is around.

So here's your poem,
thank you,
for staying by me,
thank you
for not giving me
words to write about.

But I've already
spoken word poems
to you sleepy head
every morning
when I tell you,
I love you
I really do.

You know what is heart wrenchingly terrible?
Not the fact we don’t talk anymore
[Though I’ve gotten quite used to the silence]
Not the fact that your backseat will no longer look forward to my visits
[There’s nothing like skin against skin and fog against windows]
Not the fact that my sheets have slowly lost your scent
[I screamed at my mother for washing my sheets the Tuesday after you decided to leave]
Although all of those thoughts are horrible
The worst is
I’m forgetting the color of your eyes

he looked at me
“friends… with benefits?”
i turned to him
“to be friends with benefits we’d have to be friends first
   other wise we’re just strangers ******* each other.”

                      [e.m.]

I thought I could help you
[silly naive me. what could a flimsy flower do
                                  against the stinger of a bee]

The broken pieces of you
were as sharp as steal
You cut me to the bone
with the kisses that you'd steal