The Day Before The Day That Was Last

I found a new thing recently and that was something called poetry.  I don’t really know how to explain it but it feels like I can finally say something after so long.
I feel like I do better with the blankest period.  And it makes all the syntax seem so subtle
because I am me again.
And now that we are starting to talk again,
Remember those tulips that sprouted last spring on the south of our rental house?
I’m sorry...
They bursted on contact revealing their bliss.
You don’t come around anymore, so you missed it.
And can you recall the bed we made together every morning
after the long nights of forceless bonding?
Well I pawned it to that thrift store on the other side of town.
You didn’t call me back after I left you the voicemail, asking if you wanted it.
I wish I didn’t but I just could not fall asleep in between those pillows like I used to
Life seemed better when we were room mates but I think that was just my delusion.
I never talk out loud anymore after that full day we screamed at each other
I think I lost my voice inside my own head after replaying that moment so many times
I am still searching for it with little prevail.
I wish you didn’t graduate or I never dropped out.
You might of moved on but I am just cemented to this house with
a desolate flower bed,
sleeping on a couch I found in front of those old peoples house across the street after they faded into death,
no voice,
and hundreds of letters so I can write you everyday even though you have never responded to one of them.
I sometimes think you don’t live where you told me but it hardly matters anymore.
I found serenity between the pen and the page and each word
I write,
I terminate it until I think about the next.
Then it tells me its still there.
Its the only thing I do anymore and I do it for you.
Can you come back?
This place and everything in it feels hollow and sparse without your gentleness.
It is in need of your delicate touch to live on another day.