I talk to you in my head, you know.
What's funny is,
I don't have your phone number.
So, I imagine the conversation
the way I would want it to go
the way it would probably go.
Why is it never enough? I ask,
no I insist,
Why is it never enough.
The real you wouldn't be able to tell me
and *my* you shrugs and smiles,
"It's only enough when you say it is,
but when has it ever been enough
I couldn't even begin to describe
the sound of his heart on his wrist,
the touch of his fingers on my knee,
the smell of the cool side of his pillow.
I don't have the courage to.
I mean, what's the point?
The real me aches to pack my bags,
run from all the well kept secrets
that alcohol is so urgent to bring out
and live in the shadow of an unnamed mountain.
The real me wants to tell you
all of these things,
ask and ask and ask,
What is enough?
Are you ready for me?
Where should we go next?
And then I forget,
I don't even have your phone number.