All the missing spaces in between:

I fell in love with a boy 
in a magazine.

I cut out his face
and plastered it onto 
the back of a canvas,
not bothering to find his name 
in the article.

It is nights like these 
as I lie flat on my back 
and let tears run into my hair 
and slip behind my ears 

that I wish I could 
sink to the bottom of my mattress 
and live in the gaps
between the floorboards,

my fingers tingling 
with nothing at all,

my heart the tangled city streets 
of Boston,

and my ribs the downed power lines 
of Los Angeles.

And I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.

And I am definitely missing 
an earring back 

and some space 
in my lungs 

and I wish myself away 
onto a crowded city metro 
with a pack of cigarettes in my front pocket 
from some tragic indie film 
that didn't do too hot in theaters 
but is highly revered in certain inner circles.

Instead,
I will hide from 
my shadow 
and the pieces of myself 
I don't love so much 

with the missing socks 
and spiders 
who disappeared and left you 
on edge.

Call me if you can, okay?