Undo

Here I am again,

Opening umbrellas inside because I can’t seem to get away from all of the rain. So instead inheriting bad luck from some harsh superstition that another wet lonely created. It gets me wondering about the difference between losing you or finding out that someone else found you.

Or my sleep.

Or lack thereof.

I wake up to the same song of your screams, where you drown in an unfamiliar body of water trying to wash my poetry off of your hands, or, no not that one, the one where my chest sinks the same way that you do when you sit on someone else’s bed and I wake up gasping for air.

How long will I feel like something you misplaced, but have given up looking for? Can you tell the difference between the absence of my voice and silence?

You never even knew what my voicemail sounded like, and I hope they don’t think it is because you’re so important I could never let it ring that many times before picking it up because I know that you really don’t know because you never call.

You ripped my heart out, the one beating thing I need to live and now you can’t be the murder weapon and the search party.

It’s exhausting when your voice is the one I look for in abandoned places, the sound I beg to bounce back down abandoned hallways in responses to my

“Are you there?”

Instead I stand there in all of that quiet, because the hardest part isn’t letting go. It’s forgetting I ever had a grip in the first place. Yes, I know I asked you to love me, but now I’m asking you not to leave me.