Atrophy

I'm listening.

it's not there, it
should be, does
it make a
sound,

should it?

I know I can feel it
if I just reach
beneath this
shirt, skin
to skin,
feel

blood pumping,

breathe me life, it
should be here.

I'm too selfish, I'm always
starting my poems with me, with
I, I am, I can, I will, I will be,
I'm so obsessed with my pronouns which
I will never escape, if I

look in the mirror and say

that I love your sadness

would you hate me? not
to cause, but rather, to know
how eyes can shine so full and wide like
the dying sky, can seek to
understand, yet never
believe their
own worth.

you always see the good in others,
but never in yourself,
you always see the bad in others,
but never past your own,
you always seek to understand,
but never to move on,

and because I am selfish, and
am always thinking of myself,
what does that say of me,
to want that?

returning to you on a
cloud that is about to burst, you
hold your hands out as if to catch my rain,
but I fall through you and disappear,
as quickly as I came.

you don't think you deserve happiness,

you don't deserve happiness.