you feel somehow

farther than a telephone line away

even though I hang on the end of yours

to catch any of you that might float up north to me

I miss you

my poetry is getting less poetic without you

and I can’t tell if that’s actually kind of profound

or just really angsty

if I think too much about the empty space

in Spanish class

that your words

// that you //

used to fill

both languages I know evade me

I can’t help but feel left behind

that’s shitty to say

but when you move to LA

and tell me that it’s not the place for me

it’s hard to feel like I’m still with you

I feel like I’m sending out postcard

after postcard to a ghost

and that your responses are

half my own desperate imagination