I am acutely aware that I
changed tenses in that story.
It is better for me in past tense;
his face was beautiful.
I know that he will not
talk to me. Not until
his time frame has come out.
I don't know what that frame is.
But I know him,
and that there is one.
I still love him.
It defies what I know
about the love mechanism.
It defies my past experience.
It is not unlikely that we
will not speak again
until I am over him,
and it is possible that
that will be never.
your past isn't a suitcase; you need to stop carrying it with you everywhere you go.
and your future? regard it as hand luggage. don't forget that it is there but be sure to carry it lightly
now for your present. it's the suitcase, one you pack yourself and it is up to you what is in it. i would encourage you to prepare for the holiday of a lifetime though
I make myself stop writing of you
because if you aren't here
I am romanticizing a confused memory
and you never were that great
or strong enough
to pull me out of
this sinking ship
I didn't think that a lover
could do anything except
but even jesus turned tables
in his anger
and I've found that wanting
leads to speaking in tenses
not yet intact
so I have been waiting on
a new day
a new feel
a new touch
she was a bird on the water
she was clouds reflected
she was trees sighing in the wind
she was sunlight through Venetian blinds
she was dust motes circling lazily
she was Sunday morning sex
she was smiling at me in the mirror
she was bonfires under a pale moon
she was tidal waves of emotion
she was whirlpools of conviction
she was typhoons of jealousy
and I was there too
she is the silhouette of a cigarette pressed to my teeth
she is my shadow cast behind me in the setting sun
she is blue-tinged smoke silently filling the room
she is burning my eyes like chlorine in a crowded pool
she is bars of the cage where my mind is kept penned
she is electric fencing wrapped around my heart
she is buckets of tar drowning me in my dreams
she is written in cursive on the insides of my eyelids
she is slowly shriveling my liver and blackening my lungs
she is living in all the mirrors I look into
she is becoming brobdingnagian prose
maybe that's just me but,
I'm not there anymore.
So why is she still here?
To you, nothing has ever felt as wrong as this.
You woke up next to a warm body,
But it wasn't her,
So you're still alone.
Your regret is heavier than your tired eyelids and breaking heart.
You hurt her but she was here to stay.
So why is she now not a permanent fixture to your dimming light?
Every corner you turn in this boxy apartment peeks a memory of her.
Lingering scents are now so much more valued than her lingering hands were,
When you had her.
She was always so much more afraid of getting hurt than she was afraid of loving you.
You knew it.
She knew it.
She managed to do both so perfectly anyway.
She did everything so perfectly.
She wasn't the girl first noticed in a crowd,
Her laughter was loud, obnoxious, contagious.
Her nose crinkled in all of the rightfully wrong places.
She never failed to give affection.
It was inevitable that affections would be returned.
She wasn't tall,
You never cared.
She was radiant.
She had you before you even knew she had you.
You loved her without knowing it,
Unfortunately the biggest downfall of us all.
You never made her the good while it lasts kind of thing.
She was good always.
She tried to make it last.
She loved you so completely,
For some reason it took her leaving for you to realize how wonderful she was at doing that.
Loving you completely.
You were never able to recognize the things you felt for her until she was gone.
but yet she is everywhere,
and you cannot seem to fathom how it comes to be that way.
But you know that she is gone.
You are lonely.
Everything has changed.
You can't fix the things you've broken.
You can't get back the love you've lost.
You were the daughter of good intentions
The queen of innocence
you shake the leaves from your hair
You haven't gone anywhere
You are the daughter of broken promises
The queen of masquerade
you wish the basement wasn't so dark
You try to think of a last remark
You will become the daughter of pity
The queen of melancholy
you will realize the leaves were your crown
You will plant your feet in the ground