Your eyes are the verses of the poem I will never write —
straight lines and I Love Yous with nowhere to go.
Your caresses have long been forgotten,
but tattooed on my skin are the maps to where your hands have been.
You are the book that I will never finish reading —
pages with dog ears and chapters ripped out.
You are the story I will leave unfinished to collect dust in the corners of my mind —
You left me yearning, hungry.
I am melancholy in a bottle,
and there are no answers at the bottom.