i miss having someone to talk to.
you make me feel like a poem.
it’s subtle, sharp around the edges,
but only because it keeps me safe.
bursting ruby red sunsets with kindling
like traffic cone orange
orange orange orange.
tangerines don't taste like they did when you were around.
my stomach sits in my knees,
i dread sitting somewhere and not hearing your giggling, diabolical laugh
when i would have said something not that funny
but we laugh,
because we feel the same pain in our shoulders
i am grateful for you
because you notice the things i didn't think anyone would even care to consider looking for
like how i’m always trying to shrink.
i'm doing a pretty good job,
i lost 10 pounds,
dropped 4 pants sizes,
and can feel 2 more ribs at the top of my chest
since you've been gone.
i don't know why i do this to myself,
but i know it will never be enough.