You.

They tell me to stop writing about you

But it’s not even you anymore.

Because the you I write about is

Everything I wish you were

And nothing that you are.

The you I write about loves me.

The you I write about is brave.

The you I write about didn’t leave when things got tough, or when you didn’t want me.

 

I can’t stop writing about you because it isn’t even you anymore.

You no longer are the boy I was in love with at 16

Or the girl who changed everything.

 

Yes, you are the sarcasm and the wit – But you’re also the

Raw sexuality of the woman living across the country.

You’re the smolder of the guy I met in a bar two years ago.

You’re my best friend’s kind eyes.

You’re the warm embrace I crave, but never receive.

You’re the eye contact that I’ve never held before now.

You’re the piercings and tattoos that pique my interest.

You’re the person I want my mom to meet,

And the lover who should never leave my bed.

 

You’re the one who says, “Let’s take a picture”

And you’re the questions he asks about my day.

You’re the prom date whose apology came three years too late.

You’re the male dancer who I gave consent to pin my arms above my head, and placed his hands on my body.

You’re the nice hair of everyone I’ve ever liked.

You’re the smile I need when I can’t smile myself.

You’re the care and attention I give to others, but don’t receive back.

 

I don’t write about the same you anymore.

I don’t write about the love I had or my obsession that pushed us forward then pulled us back.

I don’t write about the begging you’ve started four years later.

I don’t write about your laughter or how we both used each other.

I don’t write about how you made me feel.

 

I don’t write about the same you anymore.

I write about the yous I’ve known and the yous I haven’t met.

I write about a you that I can see with me.

 

 

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2 thoughts on “You.

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