Pressure

I think
it would be
pressure.
These words
would weigh
you down
with expectancy,
so heavy
as if bricks
were pummeling
your head,
bashing
your heart
to ribbons
of a love
you could
never hope
to live up to.
If you knew
I wrote miles
of poetry
in your honor,
your legs
would collapse
under the gravity
of my longing,
beneath the weight
of my need.
I would run too
if someone declared
this insurmountable
absence
and layed it
in my lap.
And you’ve only
ever seen
the surface.
I’ve written you
mere sentences
shaped from this
yearning
and you ran.
No one
could live up to
this pain,
this love,
so I’m hopelessly
doomed
to knowing
that you will
never know.

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