pillow.talk

she
that's what I think
when I speak of
her. in past tense.
she. like late night text dance.
I remember the way
my fingers fell on letters
yet. I couldn't say
what she.
meant.


to me it seems heartache.
it hurts worse when
the one doing the inflicting is
staring back in mirror talk.
so I'd just mouth words
in hopes that they'd form sentences
and those sentences would one day
form some sort poem
that I could hold to her face
and she could taste what those words meant.
taste what she meant.


to me those words speak.
like rain on the nights I still find sleepless.
my fingers, they lost touch with the letters.
while I table.dance in tune to
the way she'd say those three letters
that made up my name.
and I blame words for the way
I lost myself.
when I should've been finding
some sort of intent.
to tell her what she meant.


to me.

and I'll leave it at that.
because in short.
words, they don't mean a thing.
so this.
here.
is my way of telling you.
finally.
what you still mean.
to me.