Listen to me if you can’t see me.

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

His love was like a CD-ROM. I could place and position the cylinder plate and push play and I’d peep the piercing melodies like bumble bees that would pulsate from the pressure pulse of a pelvic push; of palms pleasure player pounding porous powers of pins painless acupuncture of pure pretty passion. My love was rationed into half sections no sex sessions because we used discretion with erections as I caught all of his attention through the wire and we gained desire from lips and phone and keyboards on fire. When the phone rang it used to sound like a choir.

Silently crying in the top right hand corner of my dormitory bed. Knees tucked; hugging my head not wanting to touch my clammy linens and I was quickly losing weight from loneliness, yes I was thinning, and I knew from the beginning that the 185 miles would do us in on those rough weekends when I needed him the most like for instance when I’d burn my toast on the last two slices of bread. Or when I didn’t have enough bread or when I’d get back a good paper with an unmatching grade or when a particular boy abandoned my friendship and then murdered me with an army grenade. When I had so many lemons that I’d just ruin any type of lemonade I tried to make and nights when I sweated and regretted not saying how I felt consistently and persistently not knowing that that faithful night my love would come so instantly.

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

I could no longer take it. Wanting an embrace from him and I couldn’t take it. So I hugged my pillow instead and then I told my pillow, GET OFF ME because you’re not him.

You’re not the slim Jim with the delicious teeth that would greet me in my sleep and sweep me off of my feet. Make me feel as if I was whiling because I would always wake up for some reason smiling. You don’t have forearms marked up and you’re not dark how I like em’. You don’t have clothing style that’s crispier then tempura or the audacity to wake up on a Wednesday and wear a fedora. You don’t laugh at my dumb ass jokes. All I can do is stare at your slobber stained stitching and poke you. You invoke nothing within me. No butterflies or visions of zipped down flies.

So I’d go and take a cold shower just so I could pass some hours. Trying to uncrinkle my heart while my hands got wrinkly and my body became cold and goose pimply and I’d think about those dimples that I’d imagine myself diving into for a warm waterfall of conversation. I’d sing and scream and shout and then I’d feel even dirtier when I came out. My face wet with water droplets…a few of them salty.

Missing him is like missing the news. Lost

Kissing him is like singing the blues. Cost

Holding him is like holding my life. Because

Being his girl was like being his wife. I was

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

They say time heals all wounds but what if you get amputated? Do you become encapsulated in trying to feel elated that you have two good legs and one hell of an arm? But my first mistake was not telling him in a sober state of mind that I didn’t want to leave his love behind. Disregarding his CD-ROM so I resorted to ineedsomeonetoloveme.com looking for black management but I stumble upon a changed bandit who learned his life’s lesson through incarceration but is still living a life I can’t manage. Thinking my love for him is true because I met him sober, thinking he could relate to me because I called my self ms. Startngovah. He’s currently filling a void that any other man would be doing if he was pursuing me. They’d be fillers. Filling a void and passing time while I hobble around with nothing but my girlish charm. Waiting for the love of my life to return because he is my prosthetic arm. Figuratively he completes me. Literally he completes me. Definitely, he defeats me. And physically, he releases me. But everyday it eats me to know that I never realized that when we split, I took his eyes.

So when I see him, he doesn’t see me.

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

Surprise.

Here are your eyes.