You Tell Me You’ll Text Me Tomorrow

You tell me you’ll text me tomorrow,

and I don’t want to say this again,

but you said that the last time,

phone abuzz from everyone I know but you.

I feel like I’m banging my head against the wall.

Can I add up all these minutes I’ve spent waiting for this text?

I wonder what it would say?

Do you love me?

Do you hate me?

Do you regret it?

Regret us?

Have we ended again before we’ve even started?

I can’t text first again,

the old ones are still sitting there.

You still haven’t answered them all,

if you wanted to you would.

Are there other girls waiting for answers too?

Maybe, probably.

Will they get them?

See your name on their phone,

effortless, easy, calm?

The thought makes my eyes water.

Is it just us that can’t seem to make the finish line?

Am I the greatest hurdle,

or is it you?

Maybe it’s us together?

But ‘together’ isn’t a word you like for us,

and even ‘us’ seems OTT.

I am so cautious about how I tell our story.

My hair smells of your cigarette smoke,

but that’s all you’ve left,

smokey, hazy memories.

We are nothing.

We are everything.

Are we broken?


Maybe it’s all in my head,

the way we talk, touch, connect.

Am I reading it wrong,

the way you speak to me,

the way we tear the vulnerability out of each other?

Are these butterflies or anxiety?

I want to tell you this,

should I put it in a letter,

honest and raw?

But here we are again,

because would you read it?

Maybe emotions are hard for you,

hell they’re hard for me too.

I feel like I’m going insane,

I don’t pour like this for every feeling,

but some overflow, escape.

I don’t want to feel this way,

I wish I didn’t care,

I’m tired of trying to work you out.

I know my friends are sick of hearing your name,

they don’t know either,

they have their own versions of you to question.

I’m worried about the text but it’s all we have left.

And now I’m wondering,

when the wait is finally over,

will we finally be done?

Can I let go?

The finale of us whittled down to three lines max.

I guess it depends on what the text says,

but it never knocks on the door,

never reaches my inbox.

I think I’m buried within your drafts,

maybe you’ll stay nestled within my phone notes.


Did you enjoy this poem? I would love if you could keep up with my poetry on Instagram! You can also read this poem on Medium.

Check out I Think He’s Gone Weird for all things modern dating.

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