I wrote your name 1,003 times on multiple pieces of paper,
             In books, on my desk, with broken hearts,
In print. In cursive. Smeared by tears,
                    On chalkboards, On posters,
          Things I could burn, Things I could break,
Anything that said you existed but no more--
                In hopes my hands would be utterly exhausted,
Would loathe the very thought of your name,
                And I would no longer find it slipping into my poetry,
My stories, my dreams, my thoughts—MY HEAD.

I wrote my name by itself without yours 2,056 times
                      And only managed to write a little bit over half
Without an AND or the beginning letter of your name.
                                    (I never realized how good our names sounded together, did you?
Like we had some poetic little tune, just me and you, and I would hum it
          All the time while I was thinking. Me and you. And you and me.
                                     And how we made this amazing sort of “we”).

I drew perfectly formed hearts about 3,102 times,
           Until they started to not look like hearts anymore
But more like really deformed butts. (you laugh, but it is true.
     My mom found a paper and kind of cocked a brow at me
                       As if I was going insane. “These are hearts?” she asked,
               And I shrugged. “They were supposed to be...”
                            “They look like butts.”
             And I thought maybe that meant I was starting to get over you).


I listened to “our song” about 4,509 times
              Hummed it in my sleep until it became a sort of lullaby--
I recalled the words when I wanted to cry;
                     And I thought the lyrics would become old and dull
Just like you said our relationship had become when you ended it.
       Old and dull. The same. Over and over again.
                           I couldn't amaze you anymore...
Ironically that was our song...
                               Baby, I'm amazed by you...


But it doesn't matter how many times I do it,
                        It doesn't matter how many tears I cry,
           or the number of days that drift on by.
It doesn't matter because I never tire
                          Of hearing your name, recalling the times
Of us, because for every bad, I can think of something good...
           And even though I've written your name until I couldn't move,
                           And I can write mine on my own,
      I never get tired of listening to our song...
And, well, we knew I was never very good at drawing...


But how many times must I say I'm sorry,
                How many times must I try,
                            To make you love me
                                                   one last time...