letters to la puente, or whittier, or wherever the fuck you are now.

i'm sick and tired of writing about you

of your hand moving mine in a cursive manner across blank sheets of paper

i'm tired of tear stained cheeks and old voice mails

i hate you, you fucking cunt

but i don't

i'm just sick and tired of listening to the cure and relating to pictures of you

i'm sick of you always coming up in conversations with people whose conversation i left off with being in love with you

"we don't talk anymore"

when i reality, you have decided remove me from your life

to block me from your memory

i'm nothing more than sandy foot prints in your windy desert

you're immune to my feelings

and i here i am, still writing about you

still missing you

and sick and tired of doing so