I see you

I have this month's exhaust accumulating behind my eyelids,

a compilation of non-responses, excuses he planted like common roses,

and the tears that none of you will watch close enough to see.

My dad calls me his mad genius,

but the only thing mad is the patience that's clawing apart my ribcage,

and the only thing genius

are the promises that are keeping it under my lungs.

I need to get away from you.

But that body in my chest is begging me to give you "another day,"

and those hours add up to create an October of no replies,

which means I'm wasting my words on a boy who will never catch them.

The other boy came in to pray with me.

The other one brought me medicine while we wore each other's hands and cried.

The other one asked my opinion.

The other one offered to help.

And the other one asked for a chance,

but I'm saving all those for the boy who doesn't catch them.

I'm not sure why I'm still screaming for you,

somewhere inside the cavities of my tormented hours.

"I don't know why you're waiting around," he told me.  "He only likes you when he needs you."

But the majority of my soul is set on giving you another day.

Because I see more than a somber playlist and unsent texts.

I saw you on the street, September, with a bottle of something in your hands

and your honest humor across a parking lot.

Thinking, "there he is," as your eyes got wide and your mood changed.

But you quietly returned to your high collar happiness and stoic mind.

I saw you there, though, despite the crinkled frown that followed us to bed.

And I know you're in there.

So write off my patience as another fictional trait,

dump me in the harbor like I'm useless,

send me on my way.

But I see you.

I see you.

And I don't know how many people 

can say the same.