Punctuation has no place here.

It's late, and I can't sleep.
I'm thinking of you.
The next time
(there's always a next time)
I promise
to myself, to no one
not to let it get me.
But it will, like always.
You're my route 66
and I'll get my kicks
all up and down
the roadmap that is your body.
Try to hold on to the feeling
of feeling loved
or liked.
I might get an arm
platonically wrapped around me
in the middle of a big bed on a dark night.
But you'll get all of me,
even the parts you don't want.
I might yearn some day for another
but for now
you're it.
You make it hard to move on from you
when I make it hard by moving on you.
And I know there are a million places
faces I could see, with me, not you.
I've tried a time or two.
But it's never the same.
It will never be more than this
with us
but I can't tear myself away
just yet.
I know it never will measure up
even slightly, to expectations.
But somehow, for now, this is enough.
And when it starts to get unbearable again
I'll just make that trip
for another day and a half
to fix me
for another week or two.