gabe

Thousands of words written, songs that I cried to, envelopes addressed and sealed; All the reminders of months ongoing Times I can’t get back Times I wish I could go back to Small hands a couch in a basement lights in my room We lean against the window One day I’ll fall out of it

I’ve not been to the movie theater since then Walk through the shopping center, stand in the same place, imagine meeting you on the walkway You used to lend me books I imagined you had a library You’ve haunted me since New Years’ Puddles splash as I ride my bike A montage of moments, but not a word remembered. A hug mid-sentence, wide-eyed when I’m dancing, hesitance at the dinner table

You creep up when I’m not looking I finally don’t want you here Think of sharing your bed wonder how you’d react Feel incompatible and ignore that Not a word I’ve ever said has been close to what I’d want to tell you Hours of monologues run in my head I think in the shower, lay under clean sheets Tell myself not to rehearse what to say Tell me you love me Please, tell me you love me I miss Tuesday nights and those Sunday afternoons Wait on Saturday morning, relieved when you came in It all felt pointless if you weren’t there and now you’re not. I’m not.

I’m not there Oh, what a turn of events Do you wish things were different? I messed it all up and now I’m not there I hear how you’re doing I wish I was there I’m sorry to love you It’s been so long I forget how not to.