Every person I tell about you says you’re perfect for me.
It’s 3:42 in the morning and I want to text you and pour out my soul and say “good god I miss you like a bullet hole” but the truth is I miss who you were and what we had and nether of those things is coming back and if I was to call you right now it wouldn’t change a thing because you’ve become a stranger to me and the person I love doesn’t exist anymore and the happiness we shared might as well have been a dream because
even though you have his smile and his laugh and the way he always runs his hands through his hair: it’s all completely wrong. somehow, the boy I love is gone.
Listen, little spider, you are not big enough to eat the moths I am growing in my heart.
This year began with your lips and ended with my fingertips aching from beating down notes asking you to come home.
Where most people built homes, you built a hole. You told me “someday. I swear” but then quietly left through the exit in my chest.
I promised I would leave you for my art.
Happy Anniversary for one year spent apart from me.
I question why you would do this to me, but it all comes down to: if you loved me like you claimed, you wouldn’t. I know this, because I wouldn’t do this to you. And I have loved you an ocean in between, a year in between, and still haven’t done this to you.
It will reach a time when I will be
better at tracing the cracks
in the walls of places I barely know
instead of tracing the
lines of freckles on your skin.
I will know the sound of
the creaking houses in strange lands
better than I will know the sound
of your voice.
The version of you left
became a monster that outgrew itself
the day I found out you actually were one.