I could feel the difference in vibrations whenever it was you trying to contact me.
And I know that they weren’t actually different,
but I swear the pressure in air would change whenever i knew you were thinking of me.
I hear your name between each word in my thoughts.
I danced with songs hoping you might just appear to give me something else to waltz with.
We were better at moving together in my mind than we ever were able to in real life.
We all have our stories.
And not in the plural meaning each of us getting one therefore making a compilation of many,
but more each one having thousands.
A symphony of stories one might say.
Its been so long.
And still when she looks at me in passing,
even with blood shot eyes
her glance makes me relive every moment that we've ever had together.
This whiskys words tend to come off as my own.
I struggle for control over my mouth
as I pour my soul out on the table,
my words, knocking over every cup and plate we spent so long laying out.
This poem isn’t about you
Though you may think it is
Or should it be
What is a word,
but the representation of a meaning we want to convey to another.
We spend lifetimes looking for combinations to form letters and essays
in attempt to communicate accurately what we are constantly in the struggle
of figuring out ourselves.
We died that night.
With the loss of my breathe and my head on the pavement instead of your chest
I screamed so loud I could feel my vocal chords rip,
but I can't even remember the sound.
We think we know pain.
We'd like to think we know pain.
We'd like to think we know when to expect to see the knife before it cuts into the pit of your gut.
Think you can at least see it before you.