Maybe if I didn’t want to start everything I write with the same
three words, I would feel the crater in my chest fill.
I can’t measure the depth of it for fear of losing myself.
The feeling of wanting to know your state of being never leaves.
Tell me you’re sad so I can feel the sadness and know
that we are connected at some level even still.
Let me know what agony
You told me once you wanted observe everything.
maybe I should have taken that to heart,
before you tore mine asunder.
trite words, empty actions