Lovesick

I remember a time when
I’d find you in the library,
books in your hands and
piled at your feet and you
were so over the limit of
books you could borrow, but
the old ladies working there
didn’t care because they
loved you.

I remember when I once
found you with a book in
your hands, open to the page
where the girl made love
to the boy, and there were
tears streaming down
your face.

I remember how you used
to write down quotes from
books that you found inspirational
or funny or sweet or something,
and you’d leave them on my
bedside table for me to read.

I remember the time when
you ripped up a piece of paper
that once bore a poem written
from your hand, as you screamed,
“Why am I never good enough?”

and I hugged you until
your screams subsided and all
that was left were the
crushed petals of your soul,
caught between my
fingers.