I write about the sandman
and I tell you “It’s a true story”
the hole that “leads to neverland”
in my back yard
and is, the size of my fist
and it could
you through it just as easily as it was dug.
I write about the deep blue ocean
and I tell you “It’s dark, crushing me”
the ocean is suffocating and
it’s where I
when you’re not with me.
I write about my bruise kissed eyes
and I tell you “I can’t imagine sleeping”
not without you, your breath against my ear
and the smell of cinnamon and strawberries
“the white noise” is what helps me sleep
but really, it’s the certainty of knowing
you can be so close that I can
(almost) feel you.
I write about the dreams I have about you
and I tell you “I can feel you sometimes”
but I feel you every night, I can imagine your skin
your hair, fingertips, light touches as you trace my body
The question is simple, stupid even
f e e l you.
I write about you, mostly
and I tell you “I love you”
and sometimes you question the truthfulness
and it hurts, but I question you too
s i l e n c e
and I try hard not to make it known.
I write about how you break my heart
and I tell you nothing and let you believe in the hurt
but you could never break me