visions

missing you

in which my nice rhyme scheme poetry form of the last poem breaks down and i completely and utterly collapse into feels-dumping

god damn it, grace,
i want you back.
i'm listening to the cd you made me
and i'm sitting here on the kitchen floor waiting;
even though i know you won't
come back, i really want you to.

but no.
i don't just want you to come back, grace,
i want our old times to come back.
i want the days back
from before you knew i wasn't straight,
i want the days back
from when you'd lie on the floor
of my bedroom and play with the disco ball lights,
i want the days back
where you'd ramble to me about all the stupid
boys in your life.
i want the days back
when you'd hold me at night and we'd
talk about music and cry and
understand.

fucking god, grace,
please come back to me.
i miss you and i'm playing your cd
and i want you to come back.