crude frigate
there are days i almost forget —
then he laughs,
and it ruins me again.
he does not know.
he will never know.
i fold the wanting into myself,
small, tight, until it hums.
until it hurts like a prayer.
how shameful,
to keep offering my ribs
to a boy who has never asked for them.
how shameful,
to mistake silence for mercy.
he does not know the way i break.
he does not know the way i sew myself back together,
just to love him again.
one day,
i will forget how his voice sounds.
one day,
i will stop writing poems about him.
(but not today.)
how easy it is
to ache for a ghost.
to starve for a hand
that was never reaching.
but even the angels grow tired
of crying.
steep drift