Plans Got Complex

I hope she is everything
I am not,
or will ever be.

I hope I can wake up
in the future
and not hurt
because of this.

I hope I can wake up
and feel good,
drink tea and read books
in the morning fog.

I know she is everything
I cannot be.

I know this will 
sting for a long, long time.
A place within me 
will be full of bitterness
for a while longer,
if not for years.

Because four years is
a decent chunk
of my conscious
life, 
and your existence
in it is often a 
nuisance I wish
you gone.

Go back to Texas
or Ireland and 
leave me alone.

Don't tell me anymore stories,
don't laugh at my dumb jokes anymore,
don't smile at me when I walk in the room,
even if it's just being nice.

Don't show me your cute turntable
and don't give me anymore music.
Don't get me anymore books
and never again read my poetry.

Don't wear plaid,
don't swoosh your hair like you do now,
don't give me those "everyone else is crazy" looks
and never again say we are a club.

I am not a member anymore,
I'll find somebody else
that can discuss supermarket-poetic theory
and philosophy
and poetry and art
and all that lovely stuff with me.

Don't.
Just 
don't.

I want to cut you 
out of my heart
and hand over the
sopping red thing
in a plastic bag
and say 'look what you've done to me.'
So you know,
so you know the hours I wasted 
thinking of you.
The hours I wasted talking to you.
The cds I wasted for music for you.
The nights
I spent crying and sick to my stomach
because of you.
The poems I've wasted in your name.
The days of my life
that have accumulated 
regarding you.

Honey, I can't do this much longer.
Something's gotta give so
I can get on with my life.