she was a novel
with twists and turns
the kind shoved behind
library bookshelves
and under heartsick beds

she spun words
into velvet
and they seeped
right through her lips
and onto his lonely skin

and oh, how she loved him
with the passion of a sunset
and the bravery of a child
and her words craved him
even more than she did

he was the reason why
her eyes strained a torturous fog
and her words clogged her throat
and a dozen unsent letters
desperately cluttered her room
and her words weren’t velvet,
they were just words
and just like her,
they were not worth loving anymore

i’ve lost many things
like my favorite pen
and my other sock
and you

you only know you’ve lost these things
when you can’t find anything to write with
or when only one foot becomes frigid,
but losing someone,
losing someone is different

you never empty your pockets for them
or frantically search under beds
in hopes to find them hiding there
and you can’t forget them in the bottom
of your messy closet
or in the cup holders in your car

it’s a lot harder to find someone
when they’re echoing in your heart
and pulsing through your head,
still in every part of you-
yet your arms remain
empty