If you won't write about me, I'll just have to write about you.

You drive me crazy.
The kind of crazy that leaves me pock-marked and bruised.
The kind that makes hummingbirds lose track of their wings and
The kind that makes winged insects knock endlessly into illuminated glass
Like its some door to heaven or maybe just the inside of a refrigerator.
You drive me that kind of crazy.
There are mornings I find myself swatting at you.
You don't let me press snooze again.
You make me get out of bed.
You won't stay and cuddle, because it's morning.
And the day is waiting for us.
There are days I find myself trailing behind you.
You nourish me with food.
It's not my average nutrition-less diet consisting mainly of sweet tarts and cochitos.
You cook me eggs.
You toast me toast.
You take care of me in ways I can't see to take care of myself.
Which is why
There are days I find myself utterly lost without you.
You're so far away.
And even though my stomach is empty,
Nothing can compare to how empty this bed is without you.
I have trouble sleeping.
And although the dreams do not come easy,
The nightmares always find their way to me.
They must know the shortcuts of my mind back and forth.
I wish I could have a map of yours—
Your shortcuts.
I wish I could frolic through your thoughts and build a bouquet of our memories.
Because there are days I feel I get lost.
Running circles and roundabouts in the back of your head
Trying desperately to hitch-hike on a highway to the front of your one-track-mind.
I want to be the track your mind runs circles around.
I want you to run laps on me.
I want to be loved.
But you can't respect someone who kisses your ass.
I can play hard to get, if that's what you need to be able to want me.
I'm good at it.
But here's the thing—That is not me.
Me—I adore you.
I have to make conscious efforts to love you less.
I take pictures of happily ever afters
But I have to constantly remind myself that I ruined ours
Three years ago.
And, you've made it clear.
We didn't pick up where we left off.
And I can't think like that.
We were coming up on three years, and now
It's hardly been three months.
There are days I can't remember what I was doing without you.
There are days I want to do absolutely nothing but kiss you.
But today,
Today you're not here.
And that, that right there.
That is the main reason
Why you drive me crazy.

Crash

I'm going to preface this poem by saying, he's fine.
But today, he got into a car crash.

It was his fault.
Just driving home from running some errands,
and a red light didn't seem so red to his head.
Something we both do too often,
Although every other time we've had one another
To say, "Red."

A second too late, he slammed on the breaks.
But hit a car being driven by a girl without a license.

No one was hurt.

The front of his car was ruined.
And with the money situation he has now,
This is not good news.

The insurance will cover the cost of their car repairs, whatever they may be.
But I have a feeling,
His insurance will go up.
And with the money situation he has now,
This is not good news.

But I'm spewing words here.
Thoughts I didn't think of until this screen appeared before me.
I didn't want to start this poem with,
"He's fine, but what if he wasn't?"
Because that's morbid.
But that's all I've been thinking up until this point.

What if he wasn't fine?
I'm two and a half hours away from him.
What if he was hanging dearly onto life?
Would anyone call me?
Could I get there in time if they did?

My mind is capacitated with hospital beds
and tear stained goodbyes.
It is filled with the sound of his voicemail
and speeding up the dark mountain highway
Only to find that the jaws of life must've had a cramp
and they let him slip through the cracks.

What would I do?
Why am I so far away from him?

Option #2

There are many reasons I shouldn't post this poem on here.

And one very big reason that I absolutely can't.

So, I won't.

But, it sucks.

Option #1

Its called a "Crested" duck,

When they rock an afro like that.

If you've never seen one, you've got to look it up.

Its like, a gangster-ass-aflak.

Anyways,

As we simply laid there soaking in the beauty of the man-made lake,

this G decides to waddle through the water to talk to us.

I think you were intimidated by his swag.

But in the end, you won.

He watched as you subtly said,

"So, can I kiss you now?"

Of course, this was after an acceptable amount of courtship.

We walked to the park in the wind.

We talked of the dream film you'd written in your mind.

I told you my dreams of living in Venice.

You told me you used to be fat.

I told you I'm obsessed with my mother.

And, we kissed.

And, it was lovely.

I'm sorry for being offended when you grabbed my ass.

Honestly, I'd just never been grabbed by someone I'd spent less than 24 hours talking to.

But I grabbed yours back, and we laughed about it.

I kept making you laugh.

But I'm not usually a funny person.

For some reason, I was anything but nervous around you.

I felt I'd already won the battle.

I thought you were sold.

But then today, over text, you asked if you could get a return.

That, you couldn't do anything serious right now

And you wanted me to be on the same page.

I said, of course. Why would I think other wise?

We are on the same page.

The same page, in the same chapter,

but in two different books.

I wanted breakfast in a cabin.

I dreamt of you being so wrapped up in me,

that you wouldn't mind the distance.

But I don't know where I got the confidence.

I've never had very much swag.

Drunken Piss.

It's a bad metaphor.
It's a really, bad metaphor.
It's a really, disgusting, bad metaphor.
You stand there, bloodshot eyes, staring and your dick.
Your dick, the dick you know so well.
The dick you've been using effortlessly your whole life.
The dick that pees.

But you're not peeing.
Why? Because you're drunk.
Wasted.
Smashed.
Stupid as hell.
And you've been in there for 15 minutes,

Just staring at your apparently malfunctioning dick.

It's a bad metaphor.
Because I sit here—correction,
I've SAT here
for four hours now.
Staring.
Because I was/am alone.
Thinking, about why I'm alone.
Thinking about us.

Just staring at the apparently malfuctioning us.
And this is the best poetry I've got.
Because this is all I've got.
There's nothing left.

Why can't I write anymore? Why am I so uninspired?
Why is it that happiness is arsenic to my ability to breathe poetic oxygen?
Oh, but there it was.
See, I'm complaining of the last 8 months of my joyous life,
So void of flowing and flowery speech due to the leech that is happy-love.
It has been cruel and unkind and left me empty.
Empty enough to finally see that at the depths of my ocean mind,

This lock-ness-poet lies.

That's all I got right now.