“She is a year ago.
She is the ache in the empty,
the first time you changed your mind
and the last time you were sorry about it.
She is a city sleeping beside you,
warm and vast and familiar, streetlights
yawning and stretching,
and you have never. You have never.
You have never loved someone like this.
She is your first stomach ache.
Your first panic attack and your
favorite cold shower.
A mountain is moving somewhere
inside of you, and her handprints are all over it.
Here. Here. Here, you love her.
In the fractured morning, full of
too tired and too sad, she is the first
foot that leaves the bed.
She is the fight in you, the winning
and the losing battle
floating like a shipwreck in your chest.
When they ask you what your favorite moment is,
You will say Her.
You will always say Her.”
“You are the mistakes I made in college.
You are the eighth shot of Southern Comfort
and the walk back to my dorm that
I don’t remember.
If I’m being honest, I miss being that reckless.
Your neck is a mural of lips
that belonged to women who never loved you
and I refuse to be one of them.
You are a hangover.
You are breakfast at 3 in the afternoon.
You make me sick and I love you.
I will not kiss your neck with
I will cover their lips with my own
and I will never be embarrassed
about throwing up in my own hair
that night I called you
and told you that you were the worst
miracle I’d ever known,
because I meant terrifying.
I meant perfect.
I meant please
don’t leave, I’m
trying to make this a good thing,
and you knew.
“That’s one of the great things about music. You can sing a song to 85,000 people and they’ll sing it back for 85,000 different reasons.”