#whatwasthat
He once told me
he wanted to die in a place
that looked like a poem.
I told him
I wanted to live
like I was one.
We were doomed by aesthetics—
too many soft glances,
not enough spine.
He held my wrist like a snow globe
but shook me too hard.
He said I was all feeling,
no logic.
As if logic ever begged anyone to stay.
Once,
he told me I reminded him
of a girl in a painting.
I should’ve asked
what happened to her
after the gallery closed.
I used to count his heartbeats
when he slept,
just to know something
inside him still worked.
I wore my prettiest dress
to the argument—
just in case
he needed reminding
that I’m not easy
to walk away from.
He looked at me
like a cliff he might leap from
or photograph.
I stopped saying his name
and started writing
in second person.
It still felt like calling him home.
Even now,
I write you into metaphors
so I can pretend
you were never real—
just a concept,
a cautionary tale,
a ghost that rhymed.
You wanted tragedy.
I wanted truth.
We got
whatever this was.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 10:29 AM UTC
I give you a stare showing I care,
But inside I don’t quite get what you’re saying;
I try, but does squeezing veins inside my head
Really trigger a better response and logic?
Would you prefer a sad truth?
Or a lie to make you happy?
Sure, I listen,
But eventually I hear the sounds of my thoughts
And am drowned by realistic crowd hubbub.
I want to respond with words
That favor the progress of a good conversation,
But I only have puns.
Trust me, I love to talk,
But when two voices and minds don’t catch on,
The mission for understanding becomes prolonged.
Maybe this is where
Talk-the-talk takes on a walk-the-walk cruciality.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 12:03 AM UTC