I miss her.
And I hate that I do.
The crevices of my intellect rust over without her.
I am nocturnal in a time when the sun never sets.
Unable to reflect because every decision is made anew.
The blueprint is hard to understand without the architect.
I wish she would just call me randomly at an obscure time.
When I’m reading just before leaving work.
Learning about how to better my life.
I wish she would just call me.
I want to say hello to her once more.
I want to greet her one more time.
I sit alone on this throne.
As the poison exhales through my pores.
Thinking about an ancient time when I could hear my heartbeat.
I use to text her poetry.
When we were in love.
And when love seemed absent.
Poetry is what I would send her.
Maybe I should have sent myself in every text.
In every text that I felt to send.
Maybe I should have sent myself.
Started my car and drove to where she was.
I often wonder if she doubted my devotion.
If she doubted that I felt for her the way I did.
If I felt like the rings of Saturn only remained in place because of her.
My best memories of my life include her.
Did my parents fail in sheltering me from harsh truths that I could not yet fathom?
Or was she simply more than I could bare.
I want another.