I write my words often

and passionately—

with fervor and doubt and emotion and pain,

 

and yet you use yours in such devastating vain.

 

my hand is heavy as my lead fights the paper

and fights my head—

my splitting and battered head,

 

and yet yours never turns back on from bed.

 

it takes so much, so much to coax out anything

from the place I wish you had—

the place that I’m not sure you have—

 

because the words I have for you,

ones so sweet my eyes water—

ones so sweet my toes twist—

 

stay in my little place, the place I wish you had.

 

I smile until my eyes squint

and my face scrunches—

bottling the joy I have for yet another lonely night

 

and yet yours is so bland and lacking devout delight.

 

So I reach for your hands

with my crooked fingers—

crooked but ones I hope, for you, are oh so gentle,

 

yet the few times you lock to mine are fragmental.

 

I place so much in all of this—all my words—

for yours to fall empty on my hungry heart,

to leave me finding fault in just myself

 

and in those times when I oversaw, over-want,

the words spill from your mouth like fire through a hopeless window,

destroying all of me with the red hot flickering flames,

 

leaving me as a pile of ashes in front of the eyes I’ll always return to.