Jul 2015
I have been looking for poetry. I have been emptying drawers in search for metaphors to describe words too beautiful to roll off my tongue. I have been chocking on ways to explain this feeling in my chest and no
simile or imagery will settle because the result is always less than what I need to say. I searched under my bed this morning, I'm looking for a poem that would have convinced you to stay; a poem composed of concrete that would of kept your shoes planted here so that when the night broke to day I wouldn't of had to wake up alone. Alone in this house where picture frames of our love are hung on the wall and the carpet is stained with purple spots from that one time you made me laugh so hard and spill my wine all over it. Let me assure you I never tried to get the stains out, they were just as precious as a letter that I wrote you that never got mailed out because we shared the same mail box. And as long as I knew your address as though it was my own that's when I'd be sure that wherever I am; I'm home. I have been looking for poetry. I wrote you a letter and I placed it in our mailbox because I know you love when people write to you. I know you love the look of my handwriting when it's a message written to your name. I wrote you a letter telling you that I've never enjoyed a sunrise more than when the rays kiss our hardwood floor while we're dancing in the kitchen. I've never enjoyed a sunset more than when we're laying on the grass near that one tree and the crickets sound like they're urging us to kiss. I have been looking for poetry, and there's not one place in going to miss; I'm looking everywhere. I checked under the bathroom sink this morning where we stored those candles that burned the one night we got a bit too close, shut the windows and found ourself laying in bed running fingers along the inches of each other skin like blind men reading braille. I found poetry in the small of your back. The words wrapped themselves around your spine and made their way up to your carved shoulders. I don't think I had ever read anything more beautiful. It was as though our bedroom was a place of worship; and it's always Sunday morning. I don't want to bow my head because I'm too busy reading the prayer written in your eyes.
I'm looking for poetry. I'm not gonna stop looking for it because none of them are satisfying. I'm trying to find the poem the door mat and the porch steps wrote on the day you left. The day they wrote about the silence of your breath. And the delicacy of your steps as you ran away. The one about the cracked door you left open and the breeze that made its way upstairs and whispered the goodbye you couldn't find the courage to say.
I keep writing you letters. But they always find themselves in the mailbox by the end of the week. And I wish I'd find it in myself to accept the fact that our address is different now. Everything is different now. They say insanity is doing the same thing again and again, expecting a different result. Well I must be insane because I keep looking for the poem that tells me you leaving wasn't my fault. I'm waking up shaking in our place of worship and I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe it's God gripping me by the shoulders screaming "You are loved, you are loved, you are loved!"
simile or imagery will settle because the result is always less than what I need to say. I searched under my bed this morning, I'm looking for a poem that would have convinced you to stay; a poem composed of concrete that would of kept your shoes planted here so that when the night broke to day I wouldn't of had to wake up alone. Alone in this house where picture frames of our love are hung on the wall and the carpet is stained with purple spots from that one time you made me laugh so hard and spill my wine all over it. Let me assure you I never tried to get the stains out, they were just as precious as a letter that I wrote you that never got mailed out because we shared the same mail box. And as long as I knew your address as though it was my own that's when I'd be sure that wherever I am; I'm home. I have been looking for poetry. I wrote you a letter and I placed it in our mailbox because I know you love when people write to you. I know you love the look of my handwriting when it's a message written to your name. I wrote you a letter telling you that I've never enjoyed a sunrise more than when the rays kiss our hardwood floor while we're dancing in the kitchen. I've never enjoyed a sunset more than when we're laying on the grass near that one tree and the crickets sound like they're urging us to kiss. I have been looking for poetry, and there's not one place in going to miss; I'm looking everywhere. I checked under the bathroom sink this morning where we stored those candles that burned the one night we got a bit too close, shut the windows and found ourself laying in bed running fingers along the inches of each other skin like blind men reading braille. I found poetry in the small of your back. The words wrapped themselves around your spine and made their way up to your carved shoulders. I don't think I had ever read anything more beautiful. It was as though our bedroom was a place of worship; and it's always Sunday morning. I don't want to bow my head because I'm too busy reading the prayer written in your eyes.
I'm looking for poetry. I'm not gonna stop looking for it because none of them are satisfying. I'm trying to find the poem the door mat and the porch steps wrote on the day you left. The day they wrote about the silence of your breath. And the delicacy of your steps as you ran away. The one about the cracked door you left open and the breeze that made its way upstairs and whispered the goodbye you couldn't find the courage to say.
I keep writing you letters. But they always find themselves in the mailbox by the end of the week. And I wish I'd find it in myself to accept the fact that our address is different now. Everything is different now. They say insanity is doing the same thing again and again, expecting a different result. Well I must be insane because I keep looking for the poem that tells me you leaving wasn't my fault. I'm waking up shaking in our place of worship and I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe it's God gripping me by the shoulders screaming "You are loved, you are loved, you are loved!"
