Tonight, the sky is empathetic,
tears pouring down outside as mine threaten to do.
I try to convince myself that it’s both a great and terrible idea to text “I miss you.”
Because I do.
I wanna know if you’ve been thinking about me, if you miss me,
because if you don’t, then tell me to fuck off, tell me, again, it’s over.
But if you do, say it.
Say you think about me every time you lay in your bed,
every time you hear footsteps on your staircase,
every time you see me bike by.
I’m scared to text because I’m supposed to not let you know I’m thinking about you.
I’m supposed to act like I’m not upset.
I’m supposed to seem unhurt, impenetrable.
I’m supposed to not be vulnerable.
But all I am is vulnerable.
I’m scared to text because what if you don’t respond.
The next time I see you you’ll have the upper hand,
and all everyone tells me is this is a game, don’t show your cards.
Keep it in, lock it up.
So I’ll try to let the rain do the talking.