Message 16

I have your shirt.

For some reason
I can't stop letting myself
put it to my face
to breathe in your smell.
I feel like I've known you for years,
not weeks;
my dumb fucking eyes are in tears;
I'm so weak.

I don't know why I feel sick
at the thought of not knowing you,
but I do.
It's a churning, uncomfortable mix
in my heart -
the thought hits my face like a brick -
no more art

in the way our bodies fit one another;
in watching the needle trace black;
in talking to you about anything;
knowing somebody else jammed the crack

of that door of authenticity
that the rest of the world let slam -
forced his boot there out of honesty
and ignored his social brand.

I respect your decision to cut me off,
but I don't agree with it.
I can't pretend nothing happened
or let what did happen fade into background music;
I need you to say something to me
about this -
that it's bullshit to leave me
without this -
do me justice,
because we both know
that I know
you're not an asshole.
You're so considerate
and fair
and interesting
and beautiful
that I'd never stop caring
or wondering
without a word from you.

Just know this:
1) I wasn't trying to use you.
2) I wanted to know you.
3) It will be hard for me to
calm the fuck down;
4) I get attached, too,
but I swallow the sound.
5) I have a pitiful amount
of self restraint
when it comes to you.
6) I have your shirt.
If you want it, you can have it back.

Just let me know.