My Blood Is Full Of Airplanes

Poets say things like 

"you smell like December and broken glass." 

But I'll never be a poet 

and the only smell I associate with you is 

ginger green tea 

and the leather bound books 

that you hid in your back pocket. 

I loved you like choking on a cherry pit.

I loved you like a leafless tree.

I loved you like 3 shots of whiskey 

and half a pack of cigarettes 

and it's summer 

and we're stupid 

and you really have no clue at all. 

Some people search the night sky for some sort of greater meaning. 

I search for the right words to string together,

to form a single sentence saying:

Fuck this feeling, just please come back.