a/n: before you read the poem, keep these in mind: a) i haven't edited it
at all, and b) i am a teenager: prepare for drama and angst.

it's been two weeks, three days
since we've gone past 'hello'
and ventured into 'i miss you,'
but your answering machine
knows the way i feel.

and the silence, sharpened to my liking,
is used to break my fall.

you seem like a figment of my imagination,
created in a dream to fill the spaces;
maybe i'm just being melodramatic,
but pain makes good poetry,
but who needs good poetry
if pain is the price?

if we talk, we slip into the game of perpetual motion:
hello how are you, i'm busy, goodbye.

so i'm stuck here,
revealing my innermost thoughts to my bedroom walls
and pouring my heart out into insensible poetry-

[you're so dramatic and overly sensitive,
no wonder he doesn't want to talk to you.]

you have to realize i'm a forgetful person,
so i need constant reminders that you love me
or else i won't remember.

so i'll wallow in my misery
and listen to the dial tone,
wondering if you're thinking about me,
because that's what lovesick teenagers do.