I’m sad
and I’m missing you

but I don’t really know
who you are anymore.

Which part do I long for?

Whose arms can I almost feel
enveloping me in warm safety,
in serenity made from skin,
from bones and soft eyes
and all the things
that make you human,
that make you

I’m not sure anymore
who I need
or if I just need
to fix myself.
And that’s bullshit
because I know I do,
but I’m not sure how 

or if I even want to,

and all these
hands and
words and
stir up

the me

I used
to be,
the me
this body
that moves
through life
as if
it were real.

I know the answer
and it’s too hard to bear,
so I pretend
I miss lips on hot skin
and ethereal words
whispered over white screens
instead of fixing the pieces
cupped in my bleeding hands.





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