What happened to us was something like
what happens to flowers when the vase shatters,
Or what happens to misplaced keys;
Someone was careless,
Didn't pay attention,
And now we're left with empty spaces.
What happened to us was something like
What happens to the moon as the Earth spirals on its axis,
Or what happens to the trees as it starts to snow;
We were inevitable, natural,
But cyclical,
Never able to withstand the darkness,
Or keep together through the cold.
When you left, you took my pride with you,
Swore it was all my fault
Until I believed you.
I let you think that you meant nothing,
But you were the moon and I was the tide,
Without you, I'd cease to be.
In some other life, you'd be an artist, and I'd be your muse.
Long after we'd gone, they'd hang your paintings at The Met and say, 'Look how much he loved her.'
I'd still be a poet, of course, only this time
My poems would be taught in classrooms—Picked to the bone by children who'd scribble verses on their arms,
Wishing for a love just like ours.
Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better, but right now
Everything hurts and I wish you were here.
Written after seeing the Madame Cèzanne exhibit at The Met in New York City.
