old (updated)

This is to the old version of You,

because expired milk never looks bad from the outside,

but she convinced You that You weren't worth it;

back when You spent every hour waiting for the salt to start tasting like sugar.

This is for the old You,

the dead You,

the sometimes-loved You,
the only-loved-after-things-get-tight You.

Mama said to beware of lovers who never tried to see beneath your skin,

so I set my nails against yours and drove the hammer in until You responded.

I watched You suffocate to death
so I stayed to watch You regrow.

Good love followed me out of your veins;

and I care about your eyes,

and the thoughts that go behind them,

but Old Love has long expired,
and it only seemed to care about you
once its due date came around.

The poetry was always on your fingers,

it just took a handhold for You to feel it between our palms.

And the people who never who never saw You coming,

they had their eyes closed at You.

They stopped trying to extract You.

They ignored your love of New York City.

They slept through your favorite songs.

It only takes two pairs of eyes to see the world,

and I'm too awake to shut you out.

This is to the words you wrote that a handful of people cared to catch.

This is to You, who shed his skin while the world held their breath.

And this is to the people who closed their eyes at You,

until You were gone.