Nine forty nine

I find myself writing these poems,
Filled with words I could never say.
Filled with words you would never hear.
I find myself writing these poems,
Thinking that one day you’ll stumble across them and notice I’ve been writing about you all these years.
Thinking that maybe someone will understand just how empty I felt writing this and find comfort.
I find myself writing these poems,
In dark rooms with a loud AC melody.
In dark deep thought.
I find myself writing these poems
when I miss myself the most.