We went to the art museum
and I remember
I fell in love with everything
but you
and then I realized
I worked so hard
all my life
trying to make myself
into a beautiful painting
and then you stood in front of me
and said,
"I don't get the point of art"

I know you called me that night
to avoid dialing the numbers
that would help you reach her voice,
I know you held my hand
because yours felt empty
without her fingers in-between yours,
I know you told me you loved me
because you had no one else
to mutter the words to now that she left,
I know you begged me
to hold you close that night
so you wouldn’t crumble into pieces
because she was the only thing that held you together,
I know you didn’t love me,
but you were broken
so I guess I let you break me too

It’s almost November,
and last November
I was drowning in soft sobs
with tear stained cheeks
on the bathroom floor
reaching for a pill bottle
so I could possibly alleviate the pain
I felt in my chest,
hoping and praying for better days,
well it’s getting bad again,
and it’s almost November.

Left alone with my thoughts
so I decided to strike up a conversation.
They said,
“He’d never write poetry for you,
he doesn’t even love you enough
to pick up the pen,
so why do you do it for him?
You're so busy trying
to put his puzzle together
you don’t even realize
the pieces that yours is missing.
If you’re on a treasure hunt for love
you should know that x's have deserted him,
just like the exes that deserted him.
He told you himself
you couldn’t make him happy
so why are you pouring sunshine on his grave
and complaining about the rain?”