Lost in the sauce.

For the last few days I have buried myself in migraine inducing volumes of work and new found bad habits because its hard to be in love with someone who reminds you of something gnawing through their foot, only that you’re already free and I don’t know what to do except sit on the road side and refuse to be moved.

I say “I love you” and it’s a lot more specific, than “Please don’t leave me, I’m afraid to sleep alone.” I thought this would be easy, just walking out the door. But I find myself pinning you against it with your legs around my waist. It’s like my lips want you like my lungs want air, it’s just what they were made to do. I don’t know why I’ve got so much hope pinned to someone who will never call me home, but the way you talk about literature like Marxists talk of revolution makes me want to keep trying. In the mornings, in my shower drain, in the music, in our conversations, I am looking for reasons to love you. I am looking for proof that you love me.

You are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years. I hate that you had to go through what you did so I’m punishing my heart (I’ll let it break and bleed out then roughly sew it back together.) It is hard to write poems when gradually it’s starting to feel like you’ll only ever know how to fuck me. I can promise you nothing feels like sleeping with your arm slung over me and your breath in my ear. Still, it’s comforting to know we sleep under the same moon.

I know you’re not really about poems or other sentimental bullshit, but I have to tell you even the way you eat your cereal just knocks me the fuck out.