Page Break

if it came down to it, just between me and you

it would be you every time

and it would be me swearing up and down

that i was okay and that i was fine

as long as it was you by my side

and it would be the truth for the first fucking time

no fiction, no lie, no reading between each line

and instead of searching for context clues when there’s straight facts with no metaphors

and hours spent sifting through something written like journalism

and pretending it was poetry

but it’s not always hemingway

more times than not, it’s the police blotter

but there i was, claiming sonnets were what i wanted

give me something to decipher, some kasinsky type manifesto to crack

and i would try to break up the codes they wrote like they would break up lines of static and

i would claim that love was fake the way i claimed that

lines of potpourri from the crematory

were just slightly wilted rosebuds, on a bad day

needed some water and sunlight and tomorrow they’d be okay

instead of bouquets that were DOA

but the only poetry i want to write are verses about you but there aren’t words that exist yet

but if i could bottle the sensation of your trembling hands on my skin the first time you touched me, i would never touch alcohol again

the only lines i want to read between are the spaces between your fingertips and me

and i wrote so much off, but every feeling i have ever mocked and claimed fake exists

i feel it all when i am laying next to you and for once i am not running to solitude for comfort i cannot seek

for the cooler side of the pillow that just gets warmer every week

for places that do not exist

for metaphors that do not do justice to the truth

so maybe it was journalism i was looking for all along

nothing but the truth, with no lines to read between

just you and me, nothing in between.