Best if read while listening to this song.

I wrote you a love poem that got lost between here and Miami, three stamps attached to ensure safe passage and all my fingerprints to prove who I was, but I called the post master around three a.m. Tuesday morning, begging, “Please sir, halt all permissions, this girl doesn’t love me anymore.” I found these notes on the pedestal I sit upon, where you told me I was just like other boys because I could break your heart so you broke my glass jaw. I was aiming for apathy because hatred’s not your opposite but I can’t even get that right, so you can kiss my P.O. Box, lover, I am a retired carrier of broken dreams and this poem does not convey the feeling of my hand grabbing your waist subconsciously in my sleep but we have yet to invent the language to cover both of our skins, so remember me the way we were on the bus the night before you left, sitting silent in unison like a matching set of postcards sent in different directions. I am too direct with the sadness that sits in missing you but I learned from love columns in my morning coffee newspaper that girls who can’t play nice with your fragile bones aren’t the nice girls to spend nice lives with so I have written you off and hope someday my John Hancock is worth forty-three cents to you.

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