I want you to understand
How long two years is
Seven hundred thirty days
Longer than five hundred, but less that one thousand
Two years is the chorus of Seasons of Love,
Sang twice.
Two springs
Two autumns
Two winters
And two summers.
Two years is the curving and twisting path
That leads up
To the crests and valleys of triumph and frustration
Which, ultimately,
Leads back to your eyes.
The summer breeze used to smell of you
But, in these two years, it smells like defeat and
Regret and remorse and
Climate change and my sneezes.
Winter used to take me back
To your penmanship
Your bold faced, shouted, loopy cursive
Declaring that yes, you love me
And that you hope that I like this book.
Winter now, is cold solitude
That seems to never fully dissipate
Not even for a moment
In two full years.
I don't remember spring,
Or autumn
You were never in the liminal.
You were black, or white
Unstoppable, or silent
Hopeful, or bitter
All solstice
And no equinox
Two years is as long as the strands of your influence
And the reach of my memory
Which I try to hold out to and touch
But it is intangible, and vague
So I flinch away
Two years is the quiet ambivalence
That penetrated all the levels of my consciousness to no end
All you, you
Always you
Two years is the pain of recall
The suffering of unforgetting
Which cannot be drowned out
By bitter alcohol in the throat
Or burned out
By fire in the back of the tongue
I remember you told me
That you were scared of pain.
I told you I live for it
And you called me Optimus Prime
So when you wonder
Why I never called
It is because I am Optimus Prime,
I will die, if you ease the pain
As I have lived for two years.
I want you to know
That I am not sorry.
At least not today
When your name is mentioned in the TV,
I switch channels
Because they almost always say that you are dead
Which is half-credible.
How long is two years?
Long enough, I guess
But not nearly long enough to forget your words,
Or find someone new.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
I want you to understand
How long two years is
Seven hundred thirty days
Longer than five hundred, but less that one thousand
Two years is the chorus of Seasons of Love,
Sang twice.
Two springs
Two autumns
Two winters
And two summers.
Two years is the curving and twisting path
That leads up
To the crests and valleys of triumph and frustration
Which, ultimately,
Leads back to your eyes.
The summer breeze used to smell of you
But, in these two years, it smells like defeat and
Regret and remorse and
Climate change and my sneezes.
Winter used to take me back
To your penmanship
Your bold faced, shouted, loopy cursive
Declaring that yes, you love me
And that you hope that I like this book.
Winter now, is cold solitude
That seems to never fully dissipate
Not even for a moment
In two full years.
I don't remember spring,
Or autumn
You were never in the liminal.
You were black, or white
Unstoppable, or silent
Hopeful, or bitter
All solstice
And no equinox
Two years is as long as the strands of your influence
And the reach of my memory
Which I try to hold out to and touch
But it is intangible, and vague
So I flinch away
Two years is the quiet ambivalence
That penetrated all the levels of my consciousness to no end
All you, you
Always you
Two years is the pain of recall
The suffering of unforgetting
Which cannot be drowned out
By bitter alcohol in the throat
Or burned out
By fire in the back of the tongue
I remember you told me
That you were scared of pain.
I told you I live for it
And you called me Optimus Prime
So when you wonder
Why I never called
It is because I am Optimus Prime,
I will die, if you ease the pain
As I have lived for two years.
I want you to know
That I am not sorry.
At least not today
When your name is mentioned in the TV,
I switch channels
Because they almost always say that you are dead
Which is half-credible.
How long is two years?
Long enough, I guess
But not nearly long enough to forget your words,
Or find someone new.
I remember not stopping writing this until the last word.