It would really do me good if I can keep myself from
writing about you
—the sooner, the better.
Cause if I don’t stop, you’re going to find out
will drop everything,
off my lap
just to stand up and start running right next to you.
All the cells in my body are
asking me to kick my stupid ball of doubt and slide down over this
pile of messy despair—
to get to wherever you are.
Every thought that bubbles up from
my rib cage
bursts and lands on this perfectly white blank page
—rearranging itself and
spelling out your [name].
I don’t want you
to know that this is my constant state.
I’m afraid that every word I put in print,
will somehow make you see me and stare my way.
Then I would run out of
Because all I’m ever made of is meant to write about you.
Even if I type the coldest letters,
—fuck this shit—
it wouldn’t matter.
You are the weight that goes with this bold font.
If you were italicized, would you lean onto me?
You are the ink that never dries, underlining the meaning in my life.
—By AJ Cadavedo