Sometimes, I forget about the other you.
He slips through the gaps between your teeth,
and his voice creaks from your throat,
the same way my feet creak down
the wooden stairs
in the early
cracks of dawn.

His fingerprints become yours,
and it doesn't hurt anymore.

I am ******.
The hum of the car competes for my attention
With the half volume playlist that I made for you
But you are not here.

Sand sticks to my feet and legs,
But I don't think he knows that.
The back of my calves rub against the cloth seats in the back of his car,
And I feel guilty.

This is a love poem.
This is a poem for the girl I haven't met yet,
with the long brown hair
and the eyes that always look down.

This is a poem for the girl who thinks this is about her,
and this is a poem for the girl who thinks this is about her.

And it is about you.
It's about your eyes,
and how they don't blink sixty times a minute and
I'm jealous of that,
because you don't have to deal with time passing by as quickly as I do.
And sure, you have a kaleidoscope heart, but
you also have a honeysuckle smile.
And sure, a lot of the time, you see the bad -
but that doesn't mean you can't see the good, either.

I want you to twist my skin between your hands, like an Indian rug burn,
and change me,
because we both know that it isn't as hard as we pretend it to be.
Always look forward,
and adjust me with your fingertips until I'm whatever color you want me to be,
because I'll change for you.

Day 126:

I can't keep up with the length of your hair. I can't remember if we shook our right hands or our left. I still haven't fixed the collar on your shirt because I hung it up in the back of my closet.

Day 127:

The smell of you is fading from me, faster than that sand slipping through my fingers when we went to the beach for the Fourth of July. You walked away without a sunburn.