eighttwelvetwozerozeronine

it is the eighth of december and i am starting to cry.

it is the eighth of december and i am all alone and
once again i have to pretend not to
mind.

it is the eighth of.

and you aren't here and it's less of the emptiness and
more of where you are now.
because i know that this is not about some other girl,
it's just about how i'm not good enough for
you.
or rather, i might be, but we both know that i
am too much trouble anyway. and i don't think that
you would want to spend your days
trying to decipher my poems for traces of you, but
i would think that now you know.

it is sometime in december and i'm already sick of the
cold and damp and the monotonous sound of
christmas music in the background.

it is the eighth of december.

i am tired of waiting because it is already the eighth
of december and yet you have not bothered to
tell me that this is not what you have dreamed of.
all i wanted was the eighth of december with
you by my side.

so please, if it is the eighth of december where you are,
think of me, and
pretend that you know me.
and maybe i'll feel you out there, and
perhaps
i won't feel so alone.