i still write poems about you.
it’s like a challenge-
to build heartbreak using only the
shapes of your name.
after you left, i kept the sadness in
my back pocket & tucked it in next to my
i didn’t know who i was on the days
i forgot it on the kitchen table.
see, even now i could miss you if i
let myself & i can’t remember what day of
the week it is but i can still give your number
to anyone who asks & i guess
what i’m trying to say is every time i think
i’m okay i take a finger to
and ask myself why it still hurts.