you probably don't
check your rearview mirror
when i drive past you.
or
wish for me on 11:11, over bridges,
under tunnels, on pink cars,
on falling stars, birthday candles-- or everything
in between, either.
you probably don't wilt
like a flower in the heat
everytime someone mentions my name.
or dream about me.
or write about me anymore.
or plan your life around what i'm doing, saying, thinking, feeling.
and i can't help but wonder why
even though i know this
i can't manage
to do more than just pretend that i'm fine.
or maybe you're just pretending, too.
Author notes
i doubt it
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