letters to yearning

or maybe my avoidant attachment is masquerading behind poetry

tonight i’m craving something beautiful, i want to write something beautiful, to see something beautiful, to read it, to watch it, to feel it. isn’t that the way of despair, when you’re really open to it? or when it opens you? i don’t want to be less broken, i want to sit with my broken pieces. i want to sleep in my bed, to shuffle in and pull the covers over my legs, the air conditioning nipping and the dog between my legs. i want quiet and i want to be alone and i want someone to make me chamomile and lavender tea and i want to melt into a puddle and i want to dissolve completely. i want to sit in the living room of my heart and be alone. no, you can’t come in, no you can’t touch that, no, no, no. i want candlelight and soup and tomatoes from a garden, even though i don’t like tomatoes, but i want to like tomatoes, especially the ones from a garden. don’t forget about me, i’m starting to hear my heart beat outside my ears, my skin a distant memory as it echoes away, don’t forget about me, but you are, you are forgetting, i see it in the way your eyes glaze as you wait for your turn to speak. save it, i don’t want it. put your words into a letter and burn the envelope, don’t send it, there won’t be enough stamps. this isn’t beautiful but i’m hurting, no, i’m tired. i’m tired, please see me, i’m aching, please see me. why would you make my heart leave a message on the answering machine when you’re sitting right there?