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I don’t know what to title this. All of the raw poems that I seem to find, the poems that make me really feel something, the one’s that have no real point; just rambling nonsense. the ones we can all relate to but don’t have the strength to create ourselves, they all have these late night titles. “2:36am” “midnight” “4am”
&now, I get it.
But what do I say? 2:00AM? 11:00PM? You’re there. And I’m here. And we’re time zones that feel light years apart. And I miss you. How? I don’t even know you. I just know the polite way you reply “what’s that” with lifted eye brows when you don’t catch what people say. I know your green eyes. & your white TShirt and that hesitant grin. and I’m trying too hard to make this cute; but there’s really nothing cute about the way I feel. It’s exhausting. And it’s ridiculous.
I want to be sleeping. God, how i would much rather be sleeping.
but you’re on my mind again. Still. This is real & it hurts and it really doesn’t matter the time because it’s constant.
And it’s awful and it’s beautiful and it’s scary. And it’s me. and it’s you, on rare occasions.
And it’s everything but it’s nothing. It’s nothing but me restless at midnight, and 2:17am, and 4:01. relentlessly twisting in my pale pink comforter; toward the window, back at the wall. barricaded from that cold empty side of the bed you’ll never be on by a fortress of pillows. and it’s me mind-fucked, driving up a mountain, to nowhere really, at 2pm on a beautiful Spring afternoon just to get you out of my head. But you remain, in every song. constant.
& I tell myself, it was one or two days in a series of twelve –or twenty five years for Christ’s sake– and somehow that has manifested into a lot of things, but fair isn’t one of them. When will it all make sense. If I call, would he pick up? If I ask, will he come? Is it fate, or is it coincidence, or worse is it nothing more than a mental fixation to eat away my time; nothing at all–
The struggle; constant. I would stop this in a heartbeat if I could. I would. But life is unfair that way. In the way your mind controls your every move but it cannot control your feelings. Feelings just are. And mine are — this.
Why?
Constant.

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