I’m tired

I’m tired

of existing,

of this body

that lives

without you.

I'm tired

of a pulse

being the only signifier

that I'm alive.

I'm tired

of the only mountain ranges

I see

being on calendar pages.

I'm sick

of scouring dictionaries

for the word that encompasses

the extent of this missing.

I'm sick

of writing,

of thinking it will bring you back,

of pretending

that anything but my hands will.

I’m sick

of questioning

if you’re brave enough

to address what lies within you.

I'm exhausted

from never reaching REM sleep

since you left.

I'm exhausted

from your beauty

fading from my memory.

I'm exhausted

from you believing

the story you tell yourself

that love only ends in hurt,

from me not proving you wrong.

I'm drained

from wishing you would soften,

but also

from knowing it's my job

as much as yours

to soften you.

I'm drained

from wandering,

from wondering

if tomorrow

is one day closer

to the next time I see you

or one day further

from the last time I did.

I'm spent

from flipping hourglasses

and watching my best years

pass me by

on a granular level.

I'm spent

from portraying stagnation

and indecision

when you can't

acknowledge

the source.

I’m spent

from the monotony of work,

from the vapidity of the same conversations,

from my smile losing its frequency.

I'm worn thin

from pondering

how you look

in maroon, in sage,

in a dress made of ivory.

I’m worn thin

from spending hours

strengthening my hands

and fingers

to prevent them

from letting you go

next time.

I’m worn thin

from memorizing

the precise measurements

of meals for two

just for them

to become my leftovers.

I’m fatigued

from wanting to call you

and pitch ideas to you.

I’m fatigued

from thinking you’ll do anything

but say yes,

from not always believing

in the best outcomes.

I’m fatigued

from you

not knowing

the ways you withered my courage.

I'm drowsy

from reading Buddhist texts,

from seeking stoicism

to remind me that my happiness

is my responsibility

when the slightest effort on your end

is more effective.

I'm drowsy

from the unsolicited counsel

of people

I don't want to be like.

I'm drowsy

from raising my middle finger

to my reflection

in the mirror

more often than you could imagine.

I'm out of energy

from negative self-talk

coming naturally to me.

I'm out of energy

from pushing myself

past physical exhaustion

to distract myself

from thinking about you.

I’m out of energy

from smartphones,

from texting,

from a digital world

regulating

our unique connection.

I’m fucked up

from regret

on levels

you could never fathom.

I’m fucked up

from inserting my keys

in my ignition,

turning them,

pressing the pedal

to drive to places

you won’t be.

I’m fucked up

from learning your name,

from spending my days with you,

from the wildness of falling in love with you,

from believing,

trusting,

and

knowing

you’re perfectly imperfect,

unrepeatable,

and irreplaceable.