i think i'm kind of an angst machine

i think of you the most on bad days
when falling into the comfort of your arms
was easiest, when your voice and lips made it all better.
today and yesterday though
when i conjured your face up
and saw the pimples on your arm
it is only more sadness that i find.
i'm a collector, i think, and you are my collection.
you don't sell well on ebay.

miss you.
never though two words would mean so much.
miss you.
all the stress of life and living and wanting
secretly
to not live
is wrapped up in them
like a world made of yarn balls.
the cat bats at them and spreads them across the floor
and i cry, because i am cliche and angsty and i remember too well
what it is to be happy.

it comes like a pow,
knowledge that knocks the wind out of me
so fast.
so i fall back into the arms of disability.
and love it furiously.
i will save them
because i cannot save myself.