Oct 2015
Here, this is yours.
Just take it please.
Yes, it's been in my possession for some time,
and it's been on my shelf and in my life and on my mind
but it's yours, through and through, it's never ever been mine.
I stole it, I own it, I call it by name,
but please take it back, back to where it's never actually been.
I can't hold it any longer, I can't see it each day, it can't be in my life, knowing we're not the same.
It's just another thing taking up space in my life,
space that I've left occupied by the waiting and wasting of an ending absence of you,
hope that all these things would mirror your presence, that you'd be here with it too.
You left a hole in my heart and it hurts like hell,
and this thing is sitting on my desk looking like your smile and aching like your laugh.
I tried to get rid of it but that didn't go as planned. There's no garbage for my feelings,
and I hate how time never actually tells, and your truths had no meaning.
And this poem has no rhythm anymore, it's just a semblance of the nothings you made me feel,
all the stupid dreams and expectations you raised and shattered, and built and broke.
You never told me I was beautiful or that I had stars in my eyes,
and I'm starting to only hear all the things you never said,
and I'm so disappointed in myself for falling in love with those things.
I think I put so much into Us that was never actually there,
like the idea that you loved me, that you maybe possibly cared.
Or that you thought I was lovely, and sharp, and a human being beyond compare,
or that you wanted to climb mountains and buy ice cream and lay on the floor,
and look at the sky and kiss every inch of the skin that only ever felt like raindrops before the storm that was 'more'.
My heart was yours before I met you and that truth is heavy.
Your silence is killing me. I wish that you knew you were crushing me beneath the weight of your indifference, your contentious contentment with my dimmed spirit.
There is no romanticized silver lining to your heel on my soul.
So take this book, I got it for you and I don't want to read it or see it or have it.
I don't want this heart in my body, or this pit in my stomach,
and all of the We, the Us, the You and I, is a horribly sweet memory because
every word you ever spoke to me was a year long "goodbye".
Just take it please.
Yes, it's been in my possession for some time,
and it's been on my shelf and in my life and on my mind
but it's yours, through and through, it's never ever been mine.
I stole it, I own it, I call it by name,
but please take it back, back to where it's never actually been.
I can't hold it any longer, I can't see it each day, it can't be in my life, knowing we're not the same.
It's just another thing taking up space in my life,
space that I've left occupied by the waiting and wasting of an ending absence of you,
hope that all these things would mirror your presence, that you'd be here with it too.
You left a hole in my heart and it hurts like hell,
and this thing is sitting on my desk looking like your smile and aching like your laugh.
I tried to get rid of it but that didn't go as planned. There's no garbage for my feelings,
and I hate how time never actually tells, and your truths had no meaning.
And this poem has no rhythm anymore, it's just a semblance of the nothings you made me feel,
all the stupid dreams and expectations you raised and shattered, and built and broke.
You never told me I was beautiful or that I had stars in my eyes,
and I'm starting to only hear all the things you never said,
and I'm so disappointed in myself for falling in love with those things.
I think I put so much into Us that was never actually there,
like the idea that you loved me, that you maybe possibly cared.
Or that you thought I was lovely, and sharp, and a human being beyond compare,
or that you wanted to climb mountains and buy ice cream and lay on the floor,
and look at the sky and kiss every inch of the skin that only ever felt like raindrops before the storm that was 'more'.
My heart was yours before I met you and that truth is heavy.
Your silence is killing me. I wish that you knew you were crushing me beneath the weight of your indifference, your contentious contentment with my dimmed spirit.
There is no romanticized silver lining to your heel on my soul.
So take this book, I got it for you and I don't want to read it or see it or have it.
I don't want this heart in my body, or this pit in my stomach,
and all of the We, the Us, the You and I, is a horribly sweet memory because
every word you ever spoke to me was a year long "goodbye".
