napkins and names

I write your name over and over on a napkin as I sit in a bar drinking cold beer and eating colder wings
Every stroke of the pen makes me more aware of the ache in my heart
It started off as an absentminded type of thing
A way to pass the time since you left and now with every pen stroke and L my heart bleeds

So I keep writing your name because at least now I know why the ache is there 

For the first time is months I feel
And although it pain I settle for it
Because your name on a napkin makes my heart remember its alive
I wish I had some resolution
Some neat lesson I could summarizes and make sense of something
that make my fingers remember to write or my eyes dance
you were that
A incarnate reminder of my own beauty reflected back to me
Now your just a name on a napkin in a empty bar
A broken promise
A memory of all I had stopped hoping for
There is no space for my name on this napkin
You take up every crevice a urge I fought against when we were dating
It's funny when you were here I wanted space
Your gone and I long for some proof that you were real
That you existed
That I didn't just conjure you up
I need to know it was flesh and bones
Heart and head
Not just imaginary dinners
And long talks
I need to be reminded of mountains

See your name sketched in grand cannons 

But your just names on a napkin
Where there is no space for me.
I wonder if my name was smaller could it fit
If I was smaller if I shrunk would I fit?
What if my name was more powerful more demanding
Would it leave space for both of us
Maybe there is just no room for both of us
No room for mistakes
No room for missteps
No room for two people on a small napkin
So I wrote yours because mines seems wrong right now
It seems like all of the we didn't work
I called it to fast
I am too emotional
Insecure didn't ask enough questions
Rest on my name so I write your trying to understand breaks and breakups
Death and loss
Most of all just trying to see if one day I will ever write your name so much that I forgive
And move on
And remember the syllables of my own broken sound
Unabashed and imperfect
But always my own name
My own being
Always my own power
And length
Never tucked into neat packages
For wrong men
Who never have space for mistakes
Or anything that illogical
Never room for me
One day hoping that my name too
My feelings too
My ideas
My thoughts too will matter