Stream of Unconsciousness

I wrote you a poem that you will never read,
letters that you will never open.

You don't know what I know.
You won't know what I know.

Like a shy middle schooler,
I used to erase every message just before I'm about to send it,
Hang up the phone right before I call.

Lately I've been uninspired.
I miss the days when you were the source of my sappy journal entries.

I want to write again.

I want to pretend to be composed when you're around,
and then catch my breath after I close the door when you leave.

I want to laugh at myself at how silly it seems to crush on you.
I want to stay up at night and play back our last conversation in my head.

I want to hurriedly pick out an outfit when you say you're on your way,
then pretend to you that I've been wearing it all day.

I want to act like I don't know you're there, even though I feel you watching me.

I want to play all those games that make me sick.

I wrote you two poems that you will never read.