I wrote your name            
about a hundred times.
Forwards
and backwards,
scribbled
and slanted.
Bolded and bubbled,
I carved your name into wood.
It never occurred to me that letters
I had known my whole life
could create such beautiful curves and angles.
Your body could mold into these spaces and corners.

I ran out of ink,
writing your name
I ran out of ink.

They think I’ve gone mad.
I am not mad.
Mad people do not love.

Love is madness,
but mad people do not love.

You stopped writing me
and the nurse that usually stops by,
walked right past my room.
I thought that maybe she forgot
because people forget things sometimes.
So I waited
all night,
all night,
all night.
Mad people do not sleep.

You stopped visiting me too
and I thought it was because I stopped
washing my hair.
But I can’t wash my hair
because showers make me feel like I’m drowning,
but so do you.
And now I
really
really
really
don’t know how I feel about drowning.