see this? this is your trip. this is me actively not writing you notes, or hiding epic mixes in your messenger bag, or tucking sparkly little nothings into the pockets of your pants. this is me actively not buying you flowers, and actively not missing you. this is me not planning for your return. this is me knowing I'd mean every minute of every song I'd lay out end-to-end for you -- so instead, this is me with my headphones, on my back, on your carpet, volume up. sad for all the ways she might come back. sad for all the ways you haven't left me yet.
this is me asking every time I take your arm, because I need you to tell me you want me to. and this is me caging my heart like a crackpot art project when you say you're falling in love with me, because you aren't all the way here and we both know it. this is me actively not taking your face in my hands when you sit on my lap and ask about how it would be if we graduated. this is me texting a boy the first morning I left your apartment because I thought that there might be something here worth seeing clearly. this is me actively not crying on your bathroom floor because I think you might be someone I could try on for a while.
this is how no one ever looked at me like you \ before you did.
this is me pulling the threads out of the seams of your reservations and throwing them in a pile on the kitchen table to look at. this is not a series of your old reel-to-reels, of polaroids of your past and all the ex-girl collections. this is me. all neckties and wrists and faces and chairs; all movies and train windows and epic chord changes. this is where I make quite sure it hurts, on purpose, so that it all stays real. this is how I've changed \ by not changing at all.
and this, here... sigh. this is you. all big-eyed, gorgeous you. this is your impeccable taste in music, this is your wit and your character and your bravery and your bliss. this is your skin made up of pages upon pages out of notebooks, sorting your life out in black ink at the haymarket. this is all chandeliers, and wintertime, and the sight of you. this is all your busted-up pieces making you whole. this is me writing again.
this is me bearing my once-bloody, gaff-taped heart. wrapped in guitar strings, laden with scars, framed by a fixed lens. this is you making sense to me, and me making sense to you. and so then all of this, all this right now -- this is my truth. and until I tell you,and show you, and sing for you, this is me holding my cards to my chest. but this is still my truth.