i can write page after page after page on how i feel. at this point i’m probably just borderline cliché- a thesaurus for poems i already wrote about how you broke my heart.
i can write these words; i try to write these words, to find some sort of closure, to explain to myself how i am feeling, to let my brain catch up to my heart.
it takes me ages, takes me pages and pages and pages and yet i still write more. there is no muse i need but a blank page and this memory that i apparently cling to for dear life.
i can write another poem, just like all my other hundreds, but i’ll still feel a twist in my stomach when i remember the first time we met.
i can reorganize it all, put it into a book with chapters and themes, but i’ll still wonder why i love you so much when i watch you show me to my face how little it is you care.
i could print out a copy and bring it to you, and force you to read these lines of hurt, but i’ll still feel a start like a burn to my skin
when you smile and hold my gaze. when you laugh and cover your eyes. when you talk about things with me that no one else does but i’ve always wanted to. when you motivate yourself even though you’ve failed before. when you stand a bit closer than i expect you too. when you look at me too long and i wonder what you’re thinking of. when you go out of your way to make someone feel important because you know that we all need to sometimes. when you talk to someone else and converse with your eyes, and give them all of your attention. when you make an effort to be interested in what i love. when you look only at me out of a roomful of people and ask how i’m doing, in the silent breath between conversations.
i believe that you could care, but i scoff at my naivety when i remember the days i believed you did- in fact, i thought that something would happen. i really thought that something would happen.