I bet we know who this poem’s about, too. But since you told me not to write about you, for the sake of arguing, let’s just say it’s about an ex, twice removed.

Although your name’s redacted I can’t stop detracting from the notion that as much I wish it were true, that this poem, this pen to paper, these 833 words that I see, that I write with fingers pressed to keys… are in no way, shape, or form, just about you.

You told me I couldn’t write about you anymore. And I’m not, you see. Because these sentences, while collectively at one point were singularly scripted on sheets borne from trees, are now verbal, flipped into virtual, and transformed into something metaphysical.

I used to sleep with the lights on when I was with you. No, not for fear of the monsters or demons or the ghost of Edwin Drood who’d come and inhabit the room. See, I used to sleep with the lights on because I couldn’t go a week, a day, a second, a minute, an hour, and instant… without looking at you.

But there’s still a part of me that wants to have you. No, wait. Grab you. Shit… I mean, just wrap you… in my arms around your ribs, place my hands on your hips and in the spaces and the crevices put my fingers where it dips.

I want to be reminded of your lips. No, not those ones, but the lips from which you spoke the words you once told me you loved me that fell off your tongue and epiglottis.

And when you sleep, I want to stay with you. Count the sheep as I lay with you. Feel the heat that our atoms give off from the love that our bodies react to.

And when that love you have for me gets lighter, I want to pull you in and hold you closer. No not closer, just tighter. If it’s too much then tell me and I’ll do it slighter. Or I can just hug you like a heavyweight fighter.

And when that love you have for me goes, I want to shield you like a soldier. I want to house you like a home. Be the sneaker to your sole. Grasp the fact that when people would take pieces of you, remember that I’m the one who would make you whole.

So now that you’re gone, would you please come back?

Okay yes, I still might be in love and thats really the only thing in my life right now that I can safely say is a fact. But I can’t help but breakdown and track all the things you said I did wrong and lacked. And I know you think I’m good, but really, deep down you know what I’m going through, and that this smile that I show on my face, the words that I’ve written when I say, “I’m okay,” is all just an act.

Then give me an Oscar for my work. Because the copious notes I found in pockets of coats weeks after we broke was just too much for me to cope. And what I did after was just me pretending to think that throughout every hour of the day, I wasn’t still alone.

But it’s my fault for not getting over you so soon. You see I can’t help but be confused and feel used. Because earlier in the month, even the day we got back, we were talking about our future plans and the places we were gonna move.

See, I had planned on wife-ing you. And doing the things we need to move forward in life as two. Like that willow tree being a must, that big house and corner lot in Vermont. Or like being the ones that other couples dream about but find themselves fighting about on the way home.

But believe me. I wish it was that easy for me to forget about the times I would slide my legs under your knees on the couch while we drank wine and ordered take-out. Or how I would reach down and crack the toes on your feet with my hands the way I used to because you liked how I touched.

You told me it takes half the time we were together for me to get over you. So by those calculations, I still have 128 more days of this shit to get through.

So I guess I shouldn’t care and just meet someone to hook-up, then. Like you did. But I don’t want that.

The person I need, I want to marinate in their interests, save money in small increments, creep on their Pinterest, and propose to the thoughts they think about in their head when I’m with them.

You told me I couldn’t write about you anymore. And I haven’t.

And now that I’m gone, I won’t come back.

(I totally would, though)