Wanted Wanting
Sitting here, writing,
trying to remember these feelings
back when I was young and sixteen,
when every new boy was a new love
and every new chapter was a new beginning.
things were simpler, things were wild
sprouting words, now I’ll never tell
you that I love you or ask you love me too
cause I know now, the story’s old-
er… I might say like, when really, I’m sure,
but sure’s an illusion when it comes to here
Sitting in my empty room with the light’s on,
bed’s still rumpled from this afternoon’s storm
and your skin’s warmth, still lingering where
all the parts of my soul and yours diverged, emerged
tangled in the spaces where we discovered
there are things that don’t need to be re-written.
your lips on mine and fingers intertwined,
tangled hair and pillows everywhere,
the cotton of your t-shirt against my cheek,
the rumble of your chest every time you speak
telling me these stories from chapters past,
I sit here, writing
trying to decipher some meaning
from the empty, from the sad
from the happy, from the glad, and realizing that
all you really want is me.
