getting used to missing you
is like getting used to life
It's getting up early to go on a run,
and discovering my legs are severed at the knee.
Oh, but the sunrise is so pretty.
It's coming home at night, full of life,
and having to turn out the lights,
with only glowing stars to keep me company.
It's singing with a frog trapped in my throat.
All I can do is croak.
My lungs are drowned in all that is unspoken.
It's spending everything on a dream home,
and being too broke to have a bed to own.
The floor never felt so cold.
It's reading Romeo and Juliette again and again
hoping somehow this time, happiness will be its end,
though I know from the beginning it will be sad.
It's wishing to trade all my intelligence
for an empty brain,
because then I could cope with the hope that the next person
who says my name is you.
I could be stupid enough to believe
I will see you soon,
I will want to see you,
and you will want to be seen by me.
It's the reasoning that over enough time
my hands will forget how your body feels
intertwined with mine.
That over time, this will fade
like a bad dream, like old history
when I know that is not the case.
A knife blade doesn't dull on its own,
it has to be used,
and getting used to missing you
is like getting used to a pale image
of the joy I thought I could claim as mine.
It's choking on a swallow.
It's being empty but never hungry.
It's being half of a whole,
half of a heart.
And half of a heart
is a question mark.