It’s my fault that you hurt me. I forced you into the hurricane that was my life, and I begged you to stay when you told me that you couldn’t. I made a home inside you, tried to nestle within your bones. I found that there was a constant draft, the roof leaked, the stairs creaked. I patched up the holes with duct tape, I wore a coat to bed.
The idea of love is a funny thing. The love was never there, but I believed in the idea so hard that I thought that I could create it. You think that you can make someone love you, but you can’t.
In the end, I am always writing to ghosts. It’s been years since we’ve spoken, but I was driving to work at 6:30am and a song came on that sounded like you and I thought I’d write you this poem to let you know that
I’m okay
and I’m sorry
and I think about you sometimes
and I hope you’re okay too.
