Maybe it's the poet in me
that believes
that after all these years,
and miles,
and songs,
that you might untangle yourself from her arms,
tug on the string I tied to our fingers before you left,
and find your way back
to me.
Your heart
is pulling you across the ocean,
to ports with open arms waiting for you;
and I'm left here wondering
why it wasn't enough
that I would have tore out my rib cage
and made it into a boat
for you to sail yourself there in.
I would wait here,
at this port
that is both where you have been
and where you still are,
until I turned to stone.
It's the poet in me
that can't let you go.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
Maybe it's the poet in me
that believes
that after all these years,
and miles,
and songs,
that you might untangle yourself from her arms,
tug on the string I tied to our fingers before you left,
and find your way back
to me.
Your heart
is pulling you across the ocean,
to ports with open arms waiting for you;
and I'm left here wondering
why it wasn't enough
that I would have tore out my rib cage
and made it into a boat
for you to sail yourself there in.
I would wait here,
at this port
that is both where you have been
and where you still are,
until I turned to stone.
It's the poet in me
that can't let you go.
A reflection on things that almost were, what will likely never be, and love of only the slightly requited kind.
