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Dial tones are emptier than the sound of your voice

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And so it goes

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I am reaching for a concept to convey what I’ve been meaning to say But it feels out of reach  And I say that truthfully Yet underneath it Is the heart of the matter which is — Well somewhere outside of me Edgar Allen Poe’s tell-tale beneath the floorboards calling out to me, The perpetual haunting. But find myself waiting with bated breath - for Gadot. And this is all just a literary workaround to avoid any true sincerity. Leaning on pomp and circumstance to avoid the trap door beneath the podium.  And really this is all just to say, I’ve been reaching for a concept Because it’s easier than reaching for any man I’ve ever loved And it’s easier to dress up my words and blame any lack of understanding on just lacking literary reference. This is all just to say, I’m afraid of my notebooks and ghosts pressed into the page even after it’s been ripped away. Even now Even here I can hear the beating of hearts that were once mine beneath the floorboards of each poem I traded Or is it ...
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You don't need to love me

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Just a little disclaimer, this post was inspired by my best friend Ardon, who was inspired by the song "You Don't Need to Love Me" from the musical If/then. Basically there was a lot of inspiration. Anywayyyyy. You don't need to love me. Let me rephrase that,  I don't need you to love me. And let me tell you why, There once was a girl with the forest trapped in her eyes who fell in love with a boy who had the sky in his. So the forest within her reached out to the sky within him, with stretching arms desperate to stroke the sky.  And so she stretched and reached and let herself believe that she was the one who held up the sky and he was the one who kept her warm at night wrapping himself between her branches.  And he told her that he loved her whether her branches were decorated or barren. Because he was in love with her skeleton, the things she was built from. But he changed and so did she. We often do. He fell in love with her green, her liveliness.  Winter came...
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Childhood haunts

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And any I love yous offered   Have become as empty as his apologies As the doorway   The space in the bed beside me The lines in my notebook  As I search for an inkling  Of his sincerity but find only myself lingering. In my mind I practice slamming doors closed, Instead of throwing open bed sheets Shroud every mirror. Reaching for my anger beneath the floorboards of a home that has a resemblance in both our wavering childhoods, But only finding his. It’s cold in my hands —  Like the tin cans we’ve tied to another, stretching across all this time. I cannot tell if the whispers in the dark a re between the boy who used ride his bike to school afraid it would one day vanish — And the girl who pretended she had a magic wand to make the nightmares disappear. Or if it’s the poltergeists, Drug in with the antiques of our adolescence .
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