i wrote your name down on my hand for motivation two days ago in black permanent marker, but it faded and disappeared after i took a shower

i gather my thoughts together
with a glue gun,
and start shaping your features
with a pocket knife,
widdling the excess material away;
i keep occupied,
but it is
coming out all wrong
because i am not very talented.

i sculpt a replacement:
it is an inanimate object.
it doesn't breathe.
it doesn't eat.
it doesn't talk.
it doesn't send out care packages
with wooden weightlifter knick-knacks.
or rewashable neon green sticky hands.
it isn't alive.
it isn't you.


it doesn't look like you,
even if i squint my eyes;
i'm trying my best.

we texted each other
earlier tonight,
but we haven't actually talked in a week.

i'm having a two hour conversation
with myself while
drinking a fifth of rum,
and watching two girls make out
in my passenger side mirror,
i look at my reflection in the rearview,
and realize i miss you.

but i can't tell if
i'm just being a bitch,
and overreacting.