I saved you a place in my poetry I thought you deserved.
I hoped you’d feel the tug of my pencil on the pages in your spine.
I’d bleed over my notebook with my words.
Some days I can’t get out of bed, remembering the curve
of your body in mine. I’d suck on your breathed air, recline
into that spot in my poetry. I reserved you a place I’m not sure you deserve.
Our hands looped across the counter on the corner of Fulton and Third
was always better than the bagels and your Dr. Pepper. I assumed it was also mine.
I hate that I’m bleeding over my notebook with my words.
Is there a word for believing in someone with too much nerve?
For when you attach your soul to theirs with fishing line?
You reserve a place in my poetry you don’t even deserve.
I love you too hard, with a love that preserves.
I want to give up on you, say it’s fine; I don’t want to pine.
I can’t stop bleeding over my notebook with my words.
I don’t even know if your love is genuinely what I’d prefer.
I don’t know if I need you, or anyone, to see me as divine,
but you’ve taken a place in my poetry you don’t even deserve.
I’m sick of bleeding over my notebook with my words.
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