Do you like breaking hearts?
Do you like being alone?
Do you like drinking tea?
Sugar? Milk? Black?
I’ve seen the inside of you
somehow I am reluctant to let go
that you are,
I don’t know.
Selfish? Dishonest? Whole?
Do you drive a car?
Were you drunk when you reached home?
How do you like your booze?
Warm? Expensive? Bitter?
I stepped into your purge,
sticky on the floors of my doorway.
Still I wake you up because,
school? promise? me?
Do you like talking on the phone?
Do you like me in the middle of the night?
Why can’t you hear me?
Bad connection? Sheets over your speaker? Hands over your ears?
I heard you the first time you told me
we could only be a dream.
Still I called you back.
Do you know I am not real?
Do you know I cannot feel?
Do you remember using me?
Or have you not heard my story?
Do you still like the same type of girls?
Funny? Pretty? Giving?
I sing about you,
how you made me fall out of love.
Yet I still wish you were listening because,
regret? remorse? come back?
Do you know my new name?
Do you remember giving me away?
Why haven’t you reached out?
Dead?
I’ve never stopped listening,
but now I don’t know how to discern between
loving and lying.
What’s the use of leaving the door open
when you’re not home?
What use are all these questions
when I am afraid of the answers?
What use is the truth
when there is nothing to it but you?