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Riley Swett Jan 27
Your seeds landed deep inside my chest.
They implanted your memory in my heart,
wrapping it with thick roots.
I miss feeling like someone to you.

The short time we were together
Did not allow our seeds to germinate.
My impatience told me to harvest.
Ripping through layers of soil, looking for something.

I was hoping to find love in you,
In myself.
Riley Swett Nov 2019
Your memories stain my mind like your lipstick

On my mugs. The scent of you intertwined with coffee.

At this empty table I sit, my body a shell.

I remember you across from me, adding milk

Into my cup. I can still picture the past

Too well. I can’t say this isn’t fair.



From the moment you saw my eyes wander at the fair

I knew you no longer wore your lipstick

For me. What we had was now in the past.

We still kissed, but now we wouldn’t share our coffee;

No longer did we share the small things. Milk

No longer in my cup, bitter brew filling my shell.



I miss your presence, allowing me to shell

Out the love I held for you. Is it fair

To want you here? I want you to add milk

To my cup even though I hate it. Your lipstick

Stain, still on my mug, mixing your flavors with my coffee.

I still haven’t wiped it off to protect our past.



I wasn’t this addicted to you in the past

But I’ve begun to hate this empty shell.

I’ve never hated sharing love with you. Now coffee

With you no longer exists. Not after the fair.

You no longer stained mugs, you only placed somber lipstick

Upon my mouth. A mouth who can’t stand coffee and milk.



I don’t know how I took it for so long. Milk

Made me sick. What happened is in the past.

It matters not where you place your lipstick

Whether your stains are on my mug, or my shell-

There is no question that this is fair.

I didn’t appreciate your love in our coffee



Now I cannot tell you how much that coffee

Means to me. How much I miss it with milk.

I wish I could say what you did wasn’t fair.

I still cannot rid myself of our past.

I want to wipe you off my mugs, off my shell.

You’re gone, but I can still see your lipstick.



I sit alone, drinking coffee with our past.

No longer is milk filling my vacant shell.

Is it really fair to long for your lipstick?
This poem express my lost love and my longing for the small things we shared together. This is written in the form of a sestina but not strictly in iambic pentameter.

— The End —