Our room reflects
the state of our life so perfectly;
it is in disarray,
as are we.
No time
to make the bed
No time to apologize
for what I said.
No time to talk
of what we are really thinking.
Our clothes are thrown about
much like our hearts
after the falling out.
You've lived in this room
without me for the past few days.
You told me in a message
that you missed me
like never before.
We don't talk to each other
the way that we do in our letters.
Our letters to each other are so romantic.
The irony of my excitement
to show you
the cross that my brother tattooed
on my ankle.
It was done with a sewing needle
in a bedroom.
You cried
when I said goodbye to you
this morning.
All of my heroes
have died.
they were dead
by the time that I had read of them.
I am slowly,
oh so slowly,
realizing that there are no heroes.
No one can meet the standards
that we set for them
once they are dead.
To love is to agonize over another's happiness
in place of your own.
How is it that I have never felt this
for another before?
I suppose that I have never known love.
Thank you for the pain, My Love.
It feels so good to be in love.
It hurts so bad to be in love.
Contradiction and uncertainty
make life worth living.
The irony of my excitement
to hold you in my arms again.
