i try to write about you,
but the words do not flow.
maybe i have forgotten exactly how you hurt me.
so much has happened.
my pen slips off the page.
i think of you.
i see us laughing.
another universe.
sometimes it calls to me.
little me, and you. (before.)
i see its remnants in the headlights of passing cars.
your shadow waits under streetlights.
i see you in the reflection of a pond.
catfish swim beneath.
the water ripples,
and you are gone again.
perhaps for the better.
your car rolls into the driveway of a home we do not share.
you are not here for me.
we exchange glances.
my sister climbs into the truck,
i recoil back into the house,
an injured animal.
you are gone.
i lock the door behind me.
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 2:54 AM UTC
i try to write about you,
but the words do not flow.
maybe i have forgotten exactly how you hurt me.
so much has happened.
my pen slips off the page.
i think of you.
i see us laughing.
another universe.
sometimes it calls to me.
little me, and you. (before.)
i see its remnants in the headlights of passing cars.
your shadow waits under streetlights.
i see you in the reflection of a pond.
catfish swim beneath.
the water ripples,
and you are gone again.
perhaps for the better.
your car rolls into the driveway of a home we do not share.
you are not here for me.
we exchange glances.
my sister climbs into the truck,
i recoil back into the house,
an injured animal.
you are gone.
i lock the door behind me.
Request permission to use this poem