"The way you write when you write about me…", your voice trails off, the winding lanes of language coming from your mouth and laying unfinished in the air. The government of your phrases must have run out of money to finish the pavement, like you did the last time your phone was shut off. I said to you later, in breaths,
What am I?”,
and you answered by only asking for more of it.
This may be the last time I love you, and that might be the last love letter disguised as a poem, so don’t ask me to write down a story of my dreams, don’t ask me to call you late at night, and don’t be like the one who only speaks truths with a bottle down his throat, his honesty a stopped up drain that only spills over when too much liquid is poured in too quickly.
I told you that I can feel the distance, that maybe I should start to detach myself, make my skin a quilt to hover my soul between it and my organs because I can’t do this without the full truth of everything. I guess that is one thing to always be said about me. I might talk too much, too long, and say things that no one wants to hear, but it is better than secrets spilling from a closet stuffed too full, and it is better than someone ripping off their own ears to spite their own language.