Inkless on a Tuesday

This page is lacking something that people crave to feel under their fingertips in June's Coffee shop by the metro station outside of Alexandria, Virginia.  

You were eating grilled cheese and it was only 10am.  

And I'm sorry that we came home to find it raining in Utah.

We woke up to a storm this morning that started on your hands and knees 

and is ending on the edge of my bed because my dad just came in to hug me 

and my dad doesn't hug me.

I opened up my laptop for the first time in two weeks to find Grooveshark hadn't stopped playing

and a week ago I thought of the music we'd be listening to and the albums you'd spontaneously buy

and I'm starting to forget what callouses feel like

because the rain followed us from Baltimore

and it's seeping out of our eyes

and I already miss you so much that 

I'm starting to hate the weather.

And I've always loved the rain until today.

I won't stop wondering what you wrote on the inside of the moleskin

Someday I'll see Compton and someday I'll run my hands along the colosseum walls

I don't know if you'll be there, 

but I still want you to be there.

I bought a movie for your birthday and I'm wrapping it up for you now.
Let me know if it's any good.

And soon I'll forget that it was just a phase

That I was just a phase

Because we woke up in New York

and I watched 

and I'm sick

and I'm sick

and I gave you everything

and that hurts so bad

it's making me want to bleed.

I have no ink to spare on the pages of my journal

because I traveled the country with his name on the back of everything I wrote

and I can't scribble it out yet

but I'm upside down

on the edge of my bed

because I wanted to be the best thing that had ever happened to him

and I wish my dad had hugged me a little longer

but I'm still glad he came into my broken room at all.

Thank you, dad, for hugging me.

I wish I could change my background on my phone but I can't
ever since the question "Are you okay?"
was finally followed by an honest no.