4 weeks in.
there is nothing new in the world but you.
there are spiders on the walls that remind me of your fingers--
sometimes when it's cold the way it's cold today
i sleep until midnight so i don't have to run
into your thoughts that never come to meet me.
everyday is just a long wait to get to the end
so i can go to bed and not think about you
like how i'm not thinking about you now;
to disappear under the covers, leave
the deskchairs of July and the humid almost
air we breathe the way you talk the
pitter splash patter of rain against my window
and the way my phone is buzzing with not-you.
all my afternoons blur into each other after awhile,
and i wish i didn't remember the ones you were a part of
that they weren't the most vivid, the least gray,
the most exciting- because nothing ever happened
and nothing ever will.
people keep telling me that there's no such thing as nothing
--but look at the space between us.
some nights the spiders come crawling
and all i can see are your hands on a wooden table
and the dim orange of low hanging lights
and the red brick walls lined with useless things:
all the time i spend with you
and all the waiting in between
