I sit with my forehead pressed against a cold glass window.
The airplane roars to life, carrying me 1,619 miles away from you.
This is the furthest apart we’ve ever been.
After our conversation this weekend - It’s also the closest.
My favorite hour has always been the darkest.
That’s usually the one in which you find me.
I stand here, heart open, walls down, waiting for you.
It’s hard to believe how close we came. How far we’ve come.
The cadence of our relationship can be measured
by opportunities never taken and words left unsaid.
Even after all these years you struggle to look me in the eyes,
afraid I might see what secrets you’re hiding.
You read my poetry, trying to fit your round-peg heart
into square stories of broken homes and second chances.
You’re terrified that I might still love you.
I’m afraid that you’ll never give me the chance to try.
The truth is, that I’ve never written about you.
I’ve been too afraid to let out the words that confirm
the connection we have here is undeniable.
That you’re in my life forevermore.
She thinks you’re with her because she’s the closest
thing to me that you will find down that old dirt road.
Maybe she’s right. I have barricaded my heart from anyone else
convinced there is still a chance for our love to unfold.
When I told you that I was over you, that we would never work,
when I said it was probably better we never try…
I was lying. Fuck. I was lying. It was just too
hard to believe how close we came. How far we’ve come.
You once promised me that if you ever broke up with her
you’d give us the chance that we’ve always deserved.
I wonder if you remember that. If you meant it at the time.
Beautiful girl, I know that no one could ever love you better.
I know that my broken heart is hanging by a thread.
That yours is shoved somewhere deep into her pocket.
But it kills me to watch you love someone else, be hurt by them
when I see how close we came. How far we’ve come.