The skylines, the cruise ships, the water in every window.
From the sixteenth floor of my permanence—
I do not write to you.

i am spiraling.
i am not well.
an early exit is calling me.

I believe in something greater than I—I believe in probability.

I was always lost
in many thoughts, and many glances,
other beaches, circumstances—
Ravelled in, a set of hands, of another man.
Oh, all with the same name as you.
Oh, all with the same name as you.

Never wrote of you.
Maybe now I'll write for you.
So here you go, you.

I wished you the world, but the world was already held in your eyes.

I wish I could show you all the words I wrote on my body
That you probably wouldn't approve of
(you enjoy the meaning—but not the idea).

But you don't want my skin anymore.
And that's fine.
That's just fine.