2 and 2/3

it’s been at least two and a half years,

and i hate you so much it hurts,

 

but i still drive everyone home,

after the beer bottles, and smoldering glass ash trays

tuck them in for the night,

they still smoke the same brand you did,

the smell still crawls into the wool of my coat,

and makes a home there,

i am hesitant to evict.

 

somehow,

i still find myself doing things

that would have made you smile,

the way you used to lean on my shoulder,

and tell me i was a good man,

that i had a kind heart,

and that i was special for it.

 

i still try to listen to people when they speak,

i still try to use a heavier class of words,

and speak softly, with strength,

i still try to count all the stars in the sky at night,

and i say a lot of things with very few words.

 

i am still listening for your voice,

i still need to hear you,

“You are a good man.”

 

and if i am or not,

whether you say it still if i ever cross your mind

 

i fall asleep,

 

and i can’t hear you

 

a good man is hard to find,

because it is hard to be a good man.

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Can I Ask You a Question?

Only if I can give you an answer.

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For Fuck Sake

don’t take it back now,

there is no washing these words clean,

there is no erasing what was said,

it must fucking kill you to know I really was listening

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New York, New York

She leaves my things in the mailbox.

I punch a calculator, and google apartments in New York, New York.

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Don’t Say It

“Don’t say it. I said it once, and it was wrong. Maybe in six months or so.”

What a sad thing.

5 months off, and I loved you anyway.

I do it all the time.

Can’t really help it.

A shame, I couldn’t say it when it mattered.

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I’d be a terrible actor.

I’ve already forgotten what you felt like.

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Relax!

relax,

this is all a part of the healing process.

now take your shirt off.

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