Apr 2014
I would take him back in the same span of time that my heartbeats adjust to mirror the flutter of hum-wings whenever I catch a glimpse of his ghost in my soul.
It cries for him while scrying through its windows and only he could settle it into perfect pieces, but he presses his hands against the jumbled mess that he left behind and pretends he doesn't remember how it is to feel me back into place.
I never thought that I would be this lost without another person, and sometimes I could forget that something should be looking for me, but then he speaks and his voice makes me feel found and his gaze reminds me that I belong in a place that he expelled me from in October; when leaves soaked in the passion he dropped and painted themselves with his fire, when clouds tried to warn me with grey soldiers, and when the Eiffel tower turned into shoddy log cabins with rust and tin signs reading 'Motel' instead of 'Paradise'.
He never loved the smell of my nail polish, so he never kissed my fingers- yet, I heard rumor that his lips trailed along all ten of her lithe digits and breathed her in the same way he would learn to inhale smoke next year in January, when I grew wise enough not to be his vice and she grew bored of him trying to mold her into one.
I laughed when she broke his heart and cried because I am not sure if mine will ever be healed again.
In April, when my resolve to break myself of him the same way one would break a brittle bone if pressed between harsh jaws too tight, he called.
I knew I shouldn't answer, but Cupid had yet to retrieve his anchor from my lips and when I could hold strong no longer he greeted me with a nostalgic-feeling smile in his voice and a shackle for my mind, embedded with a cursive 'K.S.'.
It's been half-a-year since that October and his passion is still in the leaves and his masons haven't glanced at 'paradise'- my nails are still black and he doesn't love the smell yet- I am going to Purchase and he is packing for Atlanta with a fever as though he would depart tomorrow, and I can't help but wonder if he thinks of me when he folds his clothes into each box and how much I was willing to travel behind his shadow if he just glanced over his shoulder a few times a day.
It cries for him while scrying through its windows and only he could settle it into perfect pieces, but he presses his hands against the jumbled mess that he left behind and pretends he doesn't remember how it is to feel me back into place.
I never thought that I would be this lost without another person, and sometimes I could forget that something should be looking for me, but then he speaks and his voice makes me feel found and his gaze reminds me that I belong in a place that he expelled me from in October; when leaves soaked in the passion he dropped and painted themselves with his fire, when clouds tried to warn me with grey soldiers, and when the Eiffel tower turned into shoddy log cabins with rust and tin signs reading 'Motel' instead of 'Paradise'.
He never loved the smell of my nail polish, so he never kissed my fingers- yet, I heard rumor that his lips trailed along all ten of her lithe digits and breathed her in the same way he would learn to inhale smoke next year in January, when I grew wise enough not to be his vice and she grew bored of him trying to mold her into one.
I laughed when she broke his heart and cried because I am not sure if mine will ever be healed again.
In April, when my resolve to break myself of him the same way one would break a brittle bone if pressed between harsh jaws too tight, he called.
I knew I shouldn't answer, but Cupid had yet to retrieve his anchor from my lips and when I could hold strong no longer he greeted me with a nostalgic-feeling smile in his voice and a shackle for my mind, embedded with a cursive 'K.S.'.
It's been half-a-year since that October and his passion is still in the leaves and his masons haven't glanced at 'paradise'- my nails are still black and he doesn't love the smell yet- I am going to Purchase and he is packing for Atlanta with a fever as though he would depart tomorrow, and I can't help but wonder if he thinks of me when he folds his clothes into each box and how much I was willing to travel behind his shadow if he just glanced over his shoulder a few times a day.
I'm not sure if I like this poem format and I'm probably not going to do it again, but my friend insisted, so here. I don't even think this poem is finished, but this is all I've got to give because nothing else is being puked out of my brain for it, and it's been a few days since I've written it and left it alone.
It's been half a year already, but it all feels so fresh.
It's been half a year already, but it all feels so fresh.
