four hundred and seventy days ago you drew too many lines across your hand. so i held onto your fingers, kissed the scars, and made you swear you'd never do it again. you told me you never believed in love but you thought you might be in deep like with me, and i said that was okay with me, i didn't want a girlfriend anyway.
if i could have looked through the warped glass into the future, i would have begged you for more frosted mornings when you let me kiss your hair, but instead i let you light us on fire, quick to start and faster to die.
four hundred days ago you let my fingers slip away, and i felt your heart beat too fast, and you didn't understand why--you were only lying there. you pushed me out the door and all my dignity followed me down the stairs, i couldn't even pluck up the courage to return to your door and say sorry.
three hundred days ago you left a message on my answering machine, and i listened to it till my ears bled. but i had moved on, so i didn't call you back-- besides, you never believed in love anyway--and i figured every cloud has a silver lining, and black ones are lined with gold. i left to go read poetry on my own because moving on doesn't mean forgetting and i'm full of nostalgic words i'll never say.
you always said five was your least favorite number, and i never understood why, i mean, wasn't five one of the most powerful numbers out there? and you told me no, infinity was the most powerful, and you pressed your hand against my lips and told me to kiss the scars, so i did, and i dropped the question-- even when i saw the five perfect lines against your wrist.
four days ago you called again, and this time i didn't even consider picking up-- new town, new job, new me. no more soggy newspaper stories to follow me when it comes to you. and i didn't listen to the message again, just deleted it and spoke through a mouth that finally admitted i loved you once, but didn't any longer.
three days ago your mom called me, and this time i picked up--because why else would she call the boy that never was besides to tell me that you were dead? and before she said anything the lights went out and all i could see were the stars, and i finally understood why infinity was so powerful, because i could hear an infinite amount of screams in my head, and i think they were all mine.
i stood by your casket today, and i watched the people pass in huge collections, saying things and crying. and you should be proud, not one tear escaped me. they told me you died because you never ate and let yourself wither away--but i don't understand, you were always so beautiful. they said your hair fell out and you bit your lips off, let them bleed into the floor. but i can't imagine you as anything but late night cups of coffee and morning sunrises. you never ate breakfast then but i never noticed because i was too busy smelling your hair.
i guess i learned to sing somewhere along the way. when we sang your favorite song at the graveside, i found myself keeping harmony with the memory of you-- and you were there and your scars were in my hand. count them, one two three four five.
i only drink cold coffee now, but i think i might try scalding hot, to see if they fill my stomach with enough fire to wake up. i've been walking in frosted dreams and you haunt them-- and i don't know whether that's good or bad. i'm going to say goodnight now, i think--mornings come early. and you come earliest, and i can't stomach one more night of counting to five on my fingers and trying to understand the concept of infinity.