#wfyo

Losing implies that it can be found. Will be found. 

I tell her so much has been taken. So much is gone. 

And they are missing. And it is missing. And she is missing. 

Qin Yu be like: you mean you don't stay up late into the night thinking about me?.... Damn. I need to change tactics.

Ones that make my phone weigh 100lbs. 

And I am reminded that for months and months 

my phone would constantly say: 

Text Emmy. 

Call Emmy. 

And I remember that I always thought: 

And say what? 

Nothing is going to make her come home. 

But I still texted.

And I still called. 

And, eventually, you stopped answering.

so much of me. 

The parts I want. 

Practically all of the only

parts I like. 

I feel left 

with the worst parts of myself. 

You point them out 

almost like 

they were another one of my freckles

that you used to adore. 

I look at you 

and the bruises form. 

The handprint around my throat. 

The blows to the gut

that bring me to my knees. 

There’s even

one on my shoulder 

where you would rest your head.

I look at you 

and pray you don’t touch me. 

I look at you 

and feel like I will die

if you don’t. 

You don’t hug me when you leave. 

You linger,

but you don’t reach. 

I can’t always be

the one who reaches. 

I miss you 

like Pompeii misses people. 

Devastating reminders 

of lives partly lived. 

If you place your ear to the earth

you can hear 

the roots’ heartbeat.

Even though they 

are charred.

I am riddled with 

cracks of bitterness for 

all the new soles walking through 

the ruins. 

And we are ruined. 

Do not dig into me

too deeply

because 

part of me hopes

no one ever uncovers all 

of us that got buried. 

We were met with tragedy, 

let us die,

let us rest. 

Let me keep you too.

Hold the pieces that you want most

hostage. 

It’s only fair. 

But the wheels of the car

turn on the highway. 

You say goodbye, but 

you’re already gone. 

Not in the ways that help me breathe. 

Only in the ways

that leave me feeling empty. 

Only in the ways that

remind me 

I was not a promise 

I used to think that if we tried hard enough, it wouldn‘t matter.

But you love me with sculptures.

But I love you with poetry.

Firm hands and careful intention.

But you can‘t read, and I can‘t see.

I thought we could get around this by putting in a little extra effort.

By translating our love into something we both could understand. Could receive.

And love is worth the effort, but translating carries so much weight.

In the end it is nothing but prosaic.

I used to think that if we tried hard enough, it wouldn‘t matter.

But knowing doesn‘t always mean feeling.

And we are both collapsing under the weight

Don’t say my name. 

Even if it’s true. 

the one I created just for you. 

The one where “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay,” translates to “Stay.” 

And where “There’s an exit door” translates to “I have room.” 

I’m trying to break up the rock that feels lodged in my throat, 

and while I tell you that everything will be alright, 

I know I am trying to convince myself too. 

You know, we’ve never been in different time zones before?

I wonder if the sky will look different when the moon is a few hours between us.

Will the red thread withstand the stress? The burden?

I am dreaming with selfish intention. 

I imagine setting up a P.O. box for you. 

One that only I will have the address for, 

and I will send you letters on hand-picked parchment, 

and they’ll smell like New York City and Eastern Standard Time. 

And it steadies my stomach

like it had never waltzed with the sea. 

I never learned to throw knots,

but I promise, if I had I would fasten you to the pilings.