They count twenty-one days to anchor a habit
but with the way I’ve learned the language of you,
I have found myself a shortcut.
I built the habit of collecting fragments,
turning every thought of you into a line of poetry.
Or how I habitually wipe my palms dry
terrified that even a drop of sweat might let you slip from my grasp.
I’ve acquired the habit of trading my dreams for the break of day,
chasing the sunrise,
only so I might greet you before the world begins.
I have become a thief of the dawn just to bring it back to you.
I gather the shattered light of the sunrise to show you what you missed.
How the sky spilled gold, and bruised violets.
I tell you every detail, but the story ends the same.
The sky is a washed-out shadow, lacking the wild embers
that make your eyes shine brighter than any star the morning tried to ****
I carried a quiet concern for your own routines.
I would always ask, whether the bitter gold of coffee has stained your mug.
Or if you’ve drawn your first breath of grey ribbons of smoke and ash.
Longing to know if the bitter heat had thawed the shy of your hands.
I have also made a ritual of the night,
watching the moon and I do not wonder if you see it too
because I ensure you do.
Inviting you to witness the same spill of light
so that for at least a heartbeat, we share one image that would spoil our eyes.
I never told you, but I admire you for the same reason
I admire the moon.
You both are creatures of eclipse,
sealing away a side of you from prying eyes.
But unlike the moon, you’ve shared a sliver velvet of the dark
Only I have witnessed.
And whenever you take advantage of the veil of shadows,
you become so full and so bright,
and that's just when it becomes harder to look away.
But like my devotion to the moon,
I have mastered the quiet art of the orbit,
I have become a student of the horizon,
I have learned to love you as the tide loves the moon.
I have found safety in the distance.
Since the day I found you with someone else,
the tides have stayed calm.
I held the waves at bay because I wouldn’t want you to see
the debris of devastation surfacing from the shipwreck.
From the day I knew someone else
might’ve danced in your moonlight,
I never knew her, yet I hoped
your tongue would boil with the mere taste
of the syllables of her name.
Just the image of her fragile fingers
laced in yours
was enough to make me want to break them.
I wanted to let her know that the earth beneath her soles
was once grounds reserved for my feet.
That she is an inhabitant of a country I built,
but I remained still.
I didn't want to give you the satisfaction
that you meant that much to me.
I couldn't grant you the spectacle
you surely have paid for to witness.
I knew your worth
should be nowhere found in my grief.
Your knowledge of my capacity with words
was what held me back.
You knew that the words I treated like bullets
were also the ***** in my armor.
I didn't want to give you the bragging rights to my wreckage.
I couldn't believe I had grown accustomed
to someone who could no longer take part in my routine.
It was haunting to see someone so familiar
become as cold as a stranger passing by.
Now, my friends call this a "bad habit."
I still love you, despite the mud of that ground
clinging tirelessly to the soles of my favorite shoes.
Every step I take only helps the dirt stay;
even running away makes the grit crawl deeper into the crevices.
They say that old habits die hard and I guess,
maybe, you're something I still can't give up.
Not just yet.