The Letter You Left When You Broke Into My house

January 11, 2012
I write to you as someone
who starts the day just to close the curtains,
thinking about all we’ve given up;
like countless Sunday nights spent lying on the edge of a star,
neither of us wasting our visit with a wish
because we had all we wanted,

but maybe I should have wished for forever.

You’re all I dream about
when I lay awake
in this lonely hotel room
Of lipstick stained glasses
And cold sheets
no longer smelling like rosemary and lemons.

Remember the nights we felt alive?
When only the tension of your bright eyes
held me together and out of breathe?
On those nights,
I would have married you in Vegas,
But you never gave me the chance to say “I do.”

Know that I have set you apart
and that there is a piece of you
in every single second
of every single day.

And you said you meant it,
but if that’s true
then tell me how it got to be this way.

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