Here’s a Poem I Wrote While too Tired to Tell My Fingers to Stop

This is a bad idea.
I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for hoping you’ll see it.
I’m sorry for remembering the times I thought that maybe
it’d end the way it started, quickly,
like a ghost sighting,
like an Amazon order—both breakups
have left me with books. I’m considering sending out internet ads
for a volume of Lovecraft
and a pair of eyes.

This is a bad idea, but everyone says that this is the time in life
where people make mistakes and use them in writing
when they’re too dulled by time to remember how they regretted it.
I’m sorry for counting the days (two) between the last time you said I love you
and the day I decided to drop stars into the Styx
like this was helpful,
like people are capable of trying to fix an atmosphere in a planet that never existed.
What I mean is,
there’s friendship like maybe we’ll occasionally talk awkwardly
and friendship like not bothering to take the time to click another button on Facebook
because this is what you’re supposed to say.
What I mean is,
writing this is a bad idea.
What I mean is,
the whole point of this
was to say that you’re a good person
just in case they forget to tell you.
I hope everything works out well.
(I still pray for you.)

This was a bad idea—but it’s too late to tell
how much I’ll regret it in the morning.

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