9:17

i’ve learned by now that
when you want to write an existential poem
and can’t think of a title,
time’s a good cop-out.

i can’t tell if i’m writing this
for you
or for myself,

but it’s 9:17
and i wanted you to know.

my feet are on the headboard
and my head is feeling full

the beads on my bracelet remind me of you,
while the sound of childish gambino
spins around my room

this is an awful poem,
i know that, i do.

but i don’t know how else to say
that i miss you

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