I always love too fucking hard.

It's like 3AM
at 8:52PM and all I can write you
is a shitty poem
and I'll never give it to you
because it'll sit in some unmarked box alongside any art I had made you
except the one I rescued today
to take home with me.
A ketchup stain on the back
of my first watercolor masterpiece
just below a message written just for you
on how I made this just for you
spent my time on it just for you
and even you didn't want it.

For awhile I thought that my words
my art
was something special,
something worth keeping because I can make pleasing things with my hands
string together enough words to give someone an idea
with my mouth
but day after day of you leaving my sacred papers lying atop a stereo
you cherish
during nights of parties with careless people
spilling drinks and food and not caring what they soil
I'd like to take them back.

I wanted you to know that I've never had anyone like you.
I do love you,
and you're amazing
compared to my mother who can't bother with me
or an ex whose wrists I kept bound with my broken heart for fear of his death on my hands
you're amazing.

I will not give up on you,
but I will distance myself.
You have a day now
we have one day now to cherish each other and to spend time with each other
because I know that even though you see your friends five days a week,
you cannot ever really "see them" because of me.
Because I eat up your time, I push you away from the computer, away from the TV,
try and pull you with yards of rope straight into my arms poised like masts on boats
you love to sail.

If my body, my star system within itself is not wanted as much
then you can have your days,
and we can have one.
I'm beginning to wonder how life would be,
if you loved me as much as you love the sea.