The girl you loved disappeared last night.
She stepped off the curb and vanished.
Following pulsing pavement,
reaching towards a green light
like Gatsby across the water,
she slipped away somewhere between streets.
Got tangled up in a stranger’s sheets.
Went home without her,
weighing less.
She used to lay awake and think of you
singing Barry White in the shower
and calling her baby,
but not since last night.
She became a fog
that glistened like snow in streetlamps
or a molten metal rain.
Slowly, she gathered herself into a backbone,
and cemented to my spine.
We crawled out of the pools
of your quicksand irises,
and walked away.
You called her name as we crossed the bar,
but when I turned around
you did not recognize me.
Feb 17, 2020
Feb 17, 2020 at 11:33 AM UTC
How many miles have you stretched between us?
Sometimes I think we are continents apart, not hours.
Maybe you’re sailing the Indian ocean
while I reach the sunny peak of a mountain.
Maybe you’re sipping fine French wine
while I trek jungles.
Perhaps you are airborne,
and I am six feet under.
Do you worry that’s the closest we’ll ever be?
Our bones packed into boxes,
with only a few feet of Earth between us?
Will you whisper secrets to me then?
In death, will you evade me too?
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
You left wildflowers on my doorstep.
They were wrapped in newspaper.
I read the headlines,
did the crossword,
and left them to wilt.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
There’s a red neon vacancy sign
that hangs in my ribcage
settled among vital inner workings.
Its electric buzzing company to the rhythm
of blood through my veins.
A forgotten motel heart,
containing only rundown furniture.
Black spots on the walls.
They are painted a peculiar colour
that is no longer in fashion.
Perhaps it never was.
- Emma Cooper
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC
Went to Vincent’s again.
There’s a Charles Bukowski poem
trapped in a tombstone
inked on his ribs.
Bluebird.
He put a broken record on.
Sat across from him,
drinking.
“I’ve never met a girl that likes old-fashioneds.”
His heroes stared strangely,
judgmental portraits glaring
from frozen white walls.
It was Joni Mitchell’s birthday.
A text from Vincent, unread.
“I’ve looked at love from both sides now.”
Put the glass down.
Go home.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 4:38 PM UTC
You were always shocked
when I would ask questions
that to you were seemingly
unnecessary,
trivial,
purposeless,
by your harsh definition.
Like you favourite colour.
Orange, you said.
When I wanted to know if your preference
leaned more towards sunsets
or fire
or tamer things,
you told me to stop asking so many questions.
It was orange, that was all.
When you bought flowers
I was surprised to see that they were pink.
It might not have mattered, but it got me thinking
about how much you don’t care to know.
Little things speak volumes,
but you disregard them.
Because it is easier to fall in love
on a superficial level,
but I crave depth.
So here I am in small pieces:
I take my coffee black.
I like to do crosswords in the paper like an old person,
and I can’t finish most of them.
I have terrible vision but refuse to wear glasses.
In quiet moments, I talk with myself like an old friend
and it is a strange illusion.
I collect business cards,
stones,
feathers,
teapots,
and strangers.
I like fridge magnets
and no sound can ****** me
quite like a good song can.
I cry when I'm angry.
I write bad poetry.
I love to laugh.
I’m a terrible swimmer.
I hate the colour pink.
You should have known that much.
At the very least, you should have wanted to.
When it comes to love my dear,
you have a lot to learn.
-Emma Cooper
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
Beautiful dreams,
like your exhale against a breeze,
are carried far and fast away.
Happy hearts,
like distant stars,
will never see the day.
The light you bring,
a phantom thing,
that slips away each time.
Love that you breathed,
promised to me
could not, it seems, be mine.
-Emma Cooper
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
I love the way you throw your hand out the window when you drive;
Careless and free,
feeling the rush of wind pass through the space between your fingers,
the earth’s breath kissing your knuckles.
I love the way you go barefoot when we walk through the woods.
People passing by throw strange glances your way,
and you tell them they’d understand,
if only they took their shoes off too.
They do not know the softness of pine needles under bare toes.
They have no connection with the ground under their feet,
it does not speak to them how it does to you.
I love the way you sing with your eyes closed,
focused on the sound of the drums, the sound of that ancient heartbeat.
The language sliding off your tongue a victorious cry
that we are still here, and we haven’t forgotten.
They may have tried to pry it from our lips,
but songs fly up from your lungs, like sparks from a fire
that is still burning strong.
I love the way you laugh, throwing your head back,
letting loose your joy into the air,
pollinating the space nearby with your hard-earned light.
The world may be a dark place,
but you cast that brilliance wherever you can,
and it gets a little brighter.
-Emma Cooper
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
My body is a vase,
with fantasies flowering out the top of my head
in bright and beautiful colours.
I want to touch them, to feel them in my hands,
but they die before I can grab them.
They wither before I can rip them from my skull and into reality,
and I am left with dead petals and thorns
that cut into the weathered skin of my palms.
You were a flower
in the garden up in my brain,
and I didn’t reach for your stem
for fear of losing even the pleasant idea of having you.
I gave you water and sunlight
and you grew until my head started to ache
under the weight
of unrequited love.
-Emma Cooper
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC