Too Much

pieces of me far beneath the surface cling to your words 
like long lost friends

words you scribble on scraps of paper penned with my unfinished poetry

influencing perspectives deep within the recesses of my subconsciousness

without my permission

punctuating

accenting

completing

but

you're a stranger to me

a memory at most

a trivial trace of time

so why do your words loop and playback like a catchy tune i hum without notice?

how is your signature inscribed on my mind so vividly without my orchestration?

i don't even know what your handwriting looks like

like, how do you dot your i's?

before finishing a thought, do you take the time to 
cross your t's?

why does your silence resonate so loudly with my inability 

to sit quietly?

all of this supersedes sensibility

committing suicide to my pride like this

i'm too proud for this 

but there's something about you 

something about you that screams, "don't give up"

i'm just not sure if my growth is willing to stunt with a reprise