My Fingers Still Remember Your Name

I wrote pages in my messy handwriting of our messy love, our tragically, beautiful, love.

I bought numerous pens just to bleed their ink in countless journals filled with all the unerasable words I could never tell you with my tongue. 

My ink stained hands bled red on white, on black words smearing across my thoughts written for you. 

No, maybe I can't show you how much you really mean to me but I can write you poems with the ink dripping from my fingertips because quite frankly, writing is all I can really do. 

but the girl across town could make you feel good when words wouldn't work. 

so I watched from behind the cross of the t in my signature and tripping over the l's in all the love letters I've ever written with your name. I couldn't move. 

trapped, like all the "I love you's" I've written in permanent ink on the white pages of my old journals. 

She has more curves than the s's in the amount of times I've said "sorry". 

I wonder if she can use her hands like I can with love running in my veins can she write better poems with her tongue than I could with twelve dollar pencils?

Can she make you smile bigger than you did when I showed you the first poem I ever wrote you?

I'd ask if she could dance better at midnight than my cursive words by candle light 

but I watch her effortlessly flow around you as I glance down at my thin words that have fallen,

and I don't think they'll ever get back up.