This is the sixth time I’ve tried
writing about you and
It’s only because I could never
tell you.

I can’t tell you the way
my heart flutters at the thought
of your perfectly shaped lips
pressed to mine or the
sleepy smile that plays upon
them when I catch you drifting
off, head in hands and tired eyelids,
in Spanish class.
I can’t tell you that I still
have the Polaroid you convinced
me to take the night your irises
seduced my heart to love you.
I can’t tell you that my
fingertips can still feel your pulse
beating beneath them, fumbling
with your tie, mind wandering to
what it would be like if
the suit and tie were
complementary to my white lace veil.
I can’t tell you that I still fall
for you every day, so here’s to the
sixth attempt of killing
myself just to make something from
this lost and hopeless love.