alone I lay,
fantasizing
about who I once was,
who we could've been.
your hand rests still,
clasped in mine.
and for a moment,
at least I can pretend,
everything
is finally
what it once was.

I could dig
into my own skin,
into my soul,
searching
for the pieces of you
that I know
linger
still inside me.

and I could try
to piece them back together
in breathless effort
to recreate the version of you
that I long to love once again,

but
we both know
deep down
you are no longer you
and I have stayed me.

and if we were truly
a match made in heaven
how did the angels
find a way
to separate us
so easily?

Internetly
There's nothing I cannot be
I can pretend I am rich
Or young, or anyone
But me
But that doesn't work
With poetry
It strips me bare
For all to see

I look at someone else's poem
And I see flawlessness.
I look at my own
And I see nothing but flaws.
I write poetry to get away from the bad feelings.
Not to make more.
And it's hard.
Everything is hard.
I've become hard.
Hardened to the beauty of the world.
Hardened to the beauty of poetry.
All I can focus on is my own writing
As I try to be as good
As you.

I’ll drink until your name
Fades off the tip of my
tongue.
I’ll drink until your eyes
are no longer the color of
whiskey, and your cheeks
are no longer tinted of
wine.
I’ll drink until your laugh
fades, and I slowly forget
the feeling of your lips caressing
mine.
I’ll drink until your memory
finally stops haunting me.

sometimes,
i forget that i am not the
only
star
in the galaxy.
i forget
That once i’m gone
it will not be the end of our book,
but merely the end of
my chapter.

I’m falling. But not in love.
I’m falling
And you are too. We’re falling to a bitter end
Yet again.

And this time, the end does not seem to be
as sugarcoated as it once was.
Or seemed to be.