I’m sorry you fell for me in July
I’m sorry you kissed me in August
I’m sorry I broke your heart in September

I remember we first met in a parking lot in Lynchburg
and your skin burned a warm caramel in the sun

we went to the forest and walked on the trails
and I think you almost bent me over on a little wooden bridge
but instead I pulled you between my legs and kissed you
and your perfect gleaming teeth

we ran the trails
me in my beat up purple vans
and my beat up black and blue heart

and you with your pristine tye dye shirt
and the hard abs underneath
cross lateralled over bone

and because of you my favorite flower is now a
bright and vivid sunflower

we broke into an abandoned house
and laid in the dark on the cool floor

and I took pictures of you as you played earl sweatshirt

like hey maybe one day we could live in a place like this
and just...
be

but that was all before I crushed you
with the weight of my heavy heart

and left you in a pool of blood on the floor
of that abandoned house

and seemingly never looked back

Once you told me “I’m going to write you a poem”
I took your jawline in my fingers and held your eyes in mine and said
“Don’t ever”

only it came out a little strangled and raspy
like the voice cracking on a freckle faced pubescent boy

You didn’t heed my warning
and a week and a half later I got three pages of
star signs and
rose petals and
wishing wells and
my eyes compared to 24 other things

And three months later you started to look like
a wilting ivy
a dehydrated leaf
a floating corpse

and I still blame it on poetry
and the way it eats at your soul
and rips its way through the lines in your palms

it nails words into the gaps in your spine
and wraps itself so tightly inside you it contracts your muscles
until it controls you

until the letters desperately written are more like *****
just something forced out of you to let go of a little sickness

I could say
“I told you so”
if I was still 9 years old
and didn’t know how it felt to let a pen and 26 letters control you

I could say I told you so

but instead I am just buying my third cup of black coffee
and trying to find another pen

On the first Friday of every month
the Arts District of Richmond VA
becomes alive at night with the buzz of artists
local artists of almost every medium
galleries which are only open for ten hours a month
suddenly filled with leather shoes
plaid shirts, skinny jeans, beards, and holes in earlobes
they walk around crowding the streets
coaxing families who made the trip from all the way uptown
to listen to the poets and painters and photographers and sculptors
prattle on about what sets them apart
they all clap each other on the back for being so **** original
I’m walking through the parted sepia sea
avoiding gazes of strangers cast in iron
I marvel at their work
which for this one night is the subject of a city
more or less, anyways
we were high on life. We were high off of too much ***
and all of the local talent
high on validation and pretension
the Mormons accosted us
their attempts to save our souls from damnation
really geeked us out
we took their lemonade, but not their word
“Incarceration: the art of captivity”
an installation by some kid who has never seen a shade of true blue
through the lens of his iPhone
if we all believe really hard -
then maybe when the sky opens up
to **** us all into the hungry sky -
all of this art will save us

John Lemon
John Lemon
John
Please put your glasses back on.