Why won’t you call me

my feelings for you are like coffee stains on the side of coffee cups—lazy friday mornings that I came to treasure still play on repeat inside my mind—you and I are lies told in the heat of the moment sweet but not the kind of sweet you can eat—we are a dissonance of words and smiles and moments that become a menagerie of odds and ends—you told me that this was this and it got a little out of hand—that you’ll know I’ll understand—and I wish I felt pain when you think of me—that way I would know if I mattered to you at all—instead of never knowing if I am sticky like syrup inside your head like the way you are inside of mine—but I’ll drown you out with words and liqour and other peoples lips until I don’t remember wanting to kiss you at all