i’ve lost three people in the past year
two friends and a relative—
one i’d known my whole life
one i couldn’t say i was truly close to
and one i’d counted on having the rest of my life getting to know more
none of these times was i next to them during their last moments
one of them we hadn’t even realized was getting close to it
the other two, well,
you can never fault one for hoping for a miracle, right?
after every loss, life went on
and a bit cruelly at that
there was neither violence, rage
nor stillness, sorrow
in the skies, in the soil
the cars just as loud, the sun just as scalding
if not startlingly offensive in its clarity
did their passing not deserve any recognition from the universe?
life went on, and so
i would walk home from work every day
and pass newly repaired streets
and quietly carry the fury of two galaxies and some
i’d spot cracks in the concrete
and fight myself from dropping to my knees
and, by hand,
claw my way through mantle, through core
into whatever had dragged them—
my two friends and my one relative—
back into the earth
dragged them away from me
all too soon
far too soon
maybe then,
the world can stop for a moment
perhaps even offer a small mercy
of exploding into the cosmos
just enough for me to reach into the center
just enough to graze their hands one last time
to apologize, to forgive
to bid goodbye, good night
i’ll miss you
and you
and you
i wish we had more time
i wish we never had to run out of it
Sep 18, 2023
Sep 18, 2023 at 11:59 PM UTC
some things i can still hear in your voice
the most inconsequential, mundane things
almost surprising upon the realization
that the voice in my head stopped being mine
and began being yours
they don't hurt
they don't make me miss you
not in the least
they're just there
as a reminder, i suppose
that i loved once to the point
of accidentally turning them into a permanent fixture in my life
in ways
other than physical
so i can still keep them
when they leave
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 3:07 AM UTC
over drinks and wordless music they ask,
"do you miss her?
do you still love her?"
i laugh and scoff
and it's boisterous and insincere.
i **** my shoulders and sip my drink,
and leave it at that.
i never give them a solid answer
other than ambiguous shrugs.
i don't care if they've noticed.
they poke and tease, occasionally sloshing their drinks,
yet they never insist for more,
for which i am grateful.
besides, how do i begin to explain
that saying no feels like a lie
but saying yes feels like an injustice?
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC
his strong, callused hands,
trained to grip and hold the toughest,
the roughest,
yet so gentle against my fingers,
my limbs.
his commanding voice,
built for authority,
booming with power,
reduced to a calm cadence to worship
me.
he loved me,
and I let him.
his affection, much like the ocean,
buoyed me in its consistency,
yet threatened to suffocate me
in its magnificence.
he was constancy
and romance,
there was persistence
in his softness.
a juxtaposition in corporeal form.
he had none of what I wanted,
half of what I needed.
and although
loneliness leaked into my nights,
he loved me
and I left him.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 2:31 AM UTC
things changed after we broke up
i started going to bed earlier.
the only reason i never did when we were together
was you.
you were the best part of my day;
i ached to have as much of you as i could, when i could,
even if it meant having to navigate the halls by memory
as i dragged my feet to six a.m. breakfast with my eyes shut.
the memory of your laughter – of the knowledge that i made you laugh – from mere hours before
warmed even the most chilly and meaningless of dawns.
i couldn't listen to music
especially ones that made me think of you;
ones that made me want to go dancing with you.
songs about happily ever afters,
longing,
unrequited love.
god, i couldn't deal with these beautiful voices singing beautifully about pain as if it deserves it.
there's nothing beautiful about it.
i started writing more.
so, so much more.
words poured out when you tipped over my half-empty glass.
i wrote when my eyes were too tired from pumping out tears,
when my muscles were too spent from beating my bed,
when my roommates stayed so i couldn't do either.
it was you who opened my eyes to poetry
so as much as i wrote to forget you,
it was also a way to feel closer to you.
at the end of the day,
i still sought comfort in you.
i started going out more, to distract myself,
but the world did a **** terrible job at helping.
just when you want to forget, the world ***** you over and reminds you, over and over again:
the sound of crunching ice, the smell of coffee, wet stains on tabletops.
to others, they're insignificant, almost invisible;
to me, they hold moments so quiet and cherished,
moments i would probably never experience again.
i talked to my friends more,
especially the ones i haven't in a while.
if anyone asked, i would say i wanted to catch up,
that i wanted to see how they're doing, that i missed them,
but it was all, unsurprisingly, a lie.
it was all an effort to bury your name beneath jovial monickers,
down, down, down,
along with me tamping down the desire to tap on your name.
"out of sight, out of mind," right?
it never worked.
it never worked because i would find myself scrolling down, down,
find myself staring at the flashing line, smug and taunting and mocking.
so you're wrong. i do want to talk to you.
i just don't know how to. i can't.
i've tried. you've seen me try.
but each time my fingers tremble with words i'm not allowed to say anymore,
and with that realization comes the tell-tale twist of something dark and harsh in my chest,
and i ache from the loss of the ease and what-used-to-be's
quickly displacing my will to be okay, to be there, for you.
so i fail. again and again and again.
i know you think i hate you,
and i haven't done anything to disprove that.
sometimes i like to think i do.
loss crippled me. hate fueled me.
hate fed my pride and ego,
made me think i was the missing piece, rather than missing a piece.
i like to think i do hate you. it's easier that way
but i know i never did, never will.
but there will always be this desire to blame someone,
to put the weight of these events on someone's shoulders,
so if i am to resent someone in this narrative,
it's me:
me and my inability to keep you,
me and my inability to let you go;
me, for running away from being loved so many times before to avoid the pain,
but set myself up by loving too much too soon.
but despite what these words seem to mean,
i don't regret loving you.
i don't regret the moment i saw you clutching your purse to your face in excitement, that first time.
i don't regret braving hours of commute to hide in a corner of a bustling McDonalds with you.
i don't regret running down the street with the twelve-noon sun glaring at us to surprise you for your birthday.
i don't regret waiting on those front steps of that bank to walk with you to school.
i don't regret fighting sleep (most of the time unsuccessfully) to cry and yell with you at whatever there was to cry and yell about.
i don't regret anything. please know that.
i hope you don't either.
to conclude this poem that isn't really a poem anymore:
i thank you.
thank you for loving me once
truly, purely, genuinely, honestly.
thank you for allowing me to love you as much as you had.
thank you for trying.
you were the first person i ever, truly loved,
and after all that's been said and done,
i'm still glad it was you.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:55 AM UTC
i stand under the cold unrelenting spray and wish for my love to be washed away – from my skin, my lips, my flesh, my fingertips – straight down the drain and into the ocean, where all the what-if's and what-could've-been's in the world swim and swirl aimlessly as they wait to be embraced by the sky, suspended and prepared to rain down and drench the next unfortunate romantic.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
"do you still talk?"
no. no, we don't.
how do we go from talking about
the color of (our) apartment walls
breakfast in (our) bed
and names for (our) mutts
(how did you go from
loving me
"loving" me
to nothing at all?)
no, we don't talk
unless one of us is
drunk
or angry
or sorry
(and it's usually me
it's always me
who loves too much
gives too much
it's always me
who's left behind)
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 3:41 AM UTC
i run in circles
around and around
sighing and waiting
for my soul to be found
a new day arrives
an orange slice in the sky
but still i lie
an empty vessel, a blank line
no end in sight
- 07.19.16
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC