I’ve always thought those long apologizing scenes in movies were overly dramatic and unnecessary,
but oh, how I feel the need to run through the rain to your door and let the words come tumbling out!
if you ever see this, know i’m sorry for letting us drift apart. it kills me still.
I think I like my reflection;
at least when I’m alone.
But when there’s other people to compare myself to,
I find myself avoiding reflective surfaces.
These poems I write, they’re my escape,
though from what I do not know.
My troubles seem to evaporate
the moment I let them show.
I write about love, which is ironic
because I’ve never had a lover.
I used to think maybe I was sick;
for I’ve never longed for one either.
I write about death when I’m feeling down
so I can cry to something new,
but thinking to when I lost real tears,
maybe they weren’t mine to lose.
Even now as I write this down
- my headphones on but paused -
I wonder where my motives are bound,
for I always feel like a fraud.
we sit on the floor
and peel tangerines
and feed them
to each other
i can almost taste
the summer heat
and the foreign
of someone else's
mouth and teeth
like last weeks' laundry
blowing in the wind,
things softly float away
ever so slowly
in a dreamlike state.
so the sun's speckles,
stars, and softer skin
will always deceive me
i never liked summer. it was too full of memories
It feels surreal to be here now
when I stood at this spot years ago.
Only then, I was happy,
and now my thoughts are bittersweet;
for all the things I’ve gained have surely come with a cost.
The years slipped by so fast.
And just when I thought I might drown under these waves of sadness,
You showed me how to swim.
When I left, we promised to stay in touch.
I remember for months we’d send emails every day, keeping as close as possible.
On our birthdays we’d post photos of us smiling for all the world to see.
“One of my closest friends” the caption would say.
“I miss you so much” my comment would be.
I seem to have skipped years between then and now, because I lay awake wondering how we’ve grown so distant.
The last time I emailed you was two years ago, for Christmas. I told you I would call later.
I never did.
I think your birthday was last week. I wouldn’t have known if not for my phone showing me a photo of us at a pool, “seven years ago”, holding plates of cake.
At some point I stopped wishing you a happy birthday, but I can’t remember when.
At some point you stopped telling me your plans for the holidays. At some point I stopped thinking about you every day.
Sometimes I can go months without missing you.
I hate it.