For no one particular,
I can only assume that you feel like love. Rather, your
fleece under my palms, like soft summer sand, burns.
But I love that and therefore must love you.
There’s anger running off my tongue, too cold. It’s
March, and I am not a fan of this, of you.
Went for a run on a projected-to-be beautiful day,
The sky rained angry. Though the hail did not last long,
it only seemed to pelt my face when I thought of you. Even the
sky pushes me forward. The flowers you gave me last week have died.
I didn’t even forget to water them.
To the one I now love less,
Admiring many new beards passing through
the line at the coffee shop this morning. From here,
even squinting, none of them resemble you. This
is satisfying. One orders an extra shot of espresso. Strong. I
think I have moved on.
A guy in line,
Your sport coat and sling bag hold you together well.
Elegant glue I do not often find around this part of town.
I am window-shopping. I haven’t worked in a week,
and even then I couldn’t afford you.
I ordered an Earl Grey.
“It’s no big deal,” the barista said in some northern dialect.
I don’t belong in this conversation, but at least I am listening.
That’s what you wanted, right? Earl Grey. No big deal. Bite marks
on my tongue grow deeper still.
This was an exercise given to me by my professor this past semester. We were instructed to write poems in the form of postcards. My interest adhered to this exercise/form immediately and I enjoyed how this selection turned out. The dates are approximates, but that does not matter. They are all true occurrences in their own ways. They are all based off of a time after a real break-up. And yes, I am over him. So if you -- you know who you are -- stumble across this: yes, it's true.