To begin, I’m sorry for carrying both our hearts on my back
like a suitcase when we both know that the last time
you fucked the wrong person, it was me,
and I still haven’t returned the luggage tags
from the first man I kissed. And I apologize
for always using the cordless phone to call you
because I’m too emotionally unstable to handle text messages.
See, people who read Braille really actually know
three languages: the one they were born with, the one
they read with their fingerprints, and the language
they feel when someone says their name for the last time
but they can’t see that person’s mouth moving.
Yes, my heart is irresponsible to the point that it can’t even
show up for our dates in my chest on time, but
I’m so emotionally invested in you that every time
you so much as look my way, I need therapy
to get me through the rest of the day.
You were a monsoon season that never ended.
The pot that boiled over because I watched it too much.
And even the sound of your loneliness is so familiar
that I know it ten times better
than my last four ringtones.