I almost miss the sound of your voice but know that the rain
outside my window will suffice for tonight.
I’m not drunk yet, but we haven’t spoken in months
and I wanted to tell you that someone threw a bouquet of roses
in a corner trash bin and I wanted to cry
because, because - well
you know exactly why.
And, I guess I’m calling because only you understand
how that would break my heart.
I’m running out of things to say.
I’ve stopped stealing pages out of poetry books, but
last week I pocketed a thesaurus and looked for synonyms for you
and could only find rain
and more rain
and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, an orchestra.
What can I say? We are all lonely.
There are some gaps in your heart that no body can ever fill and try as you might to stitch the days together the thread sometimes will break, and yet
our blood goes on running through these veins
searching for our organs to embrace
willing us to run, to breathe, to live.
It’s hard to believe you are made of the stars
when you find no ocean deep enough to bury yourself under
and gravity pulls down not only your body
but every hope you ever harboured in the darkest corners of your bones.
Sometimes, still, I raise my eyes to meet yours.
And there will always be spaces between us that feel heavier than our hearts ever could but they are, I think, the only ground strong enough to carry the weight of our lives.
I forget that simply in sharing a glance we defy human nature’s laws of physics. We love not out of fear, but in spite of it.