As you speak,
your words are traced on my skin.
No one speaks quite like you.
No one quite understands that
by now, I am just bones held together
by the vestiges of you.
I can’t finish you,
I can’t get enough of you.
I’ve never really tried.
It was always sandpaper on skin with you.
I knew I was rough around the edges but
I’d hoped you liked me that way.
I got lost in you—in your darker corners.
Lit a fire and kept myself warm in secrets
you’d only speak of in the middle of the night
in self-conscious whispers.
But those nights were never enough.
They never really filled.
You never really filled but you were
never really full—only half a man at most.
I could’ve taken your half and loved it with mine
but I was both too much and not enough.