i could write poems about the museums kisses we imitated from paintings hung in front of us, about the sudden 4 am drives because we couldn't wait for the morning to see each other, about our 5 am musings about not repeating my parent's history of falling out of love.
but no, darling, because this poem is about the pretend good night kisses that do not quite touch my skin, this is about the 4 ams spent waiting for the sound of your car or your footsteps to the front door. this poem darling, is for the sound of my heart breaking the silence that lasted 'til 5 and 6 ams. this poem is about us — becoming just like my mom and dad.
this poem is about the songs that ran out of tune, and the thousandfold letters that spilled that day you left and the poems i was never able to read again.
darling, this is a poem about our undoing; it's about us giving up on us.
this is about the last time we made love, when it wasn't even one.
this poem is a mess of words about our downfall. this poem is a mess of words about you, darling.
a mess of words about you — a mess of words about you gone.