I love you.
That's to say,
I sent you a text before leaving for work:
"There's half of an orange on the counter for you"
I think it is unkind for me to be in love
and be in love still
I think it is unkind for me to love you
Like every other petal of a flower
I did not pick it
But it is wilting either way.
I do not understand
How you unwrap my mind
And I no longer feel the ghost of hands on my skin
Of skin on my skin
I am 3.5 steps behind you
You always said you had nine lives
Dear Sylvia, I wish you had stayed
For just one
Dear Sylvia, of all the ways to choose
You create poets who find no art in baking
Though I suppose our ovens
Are viewed a bit differently now
The brownies come out burnt
I write a poem about the time I
Thought about killing myself
but got distracted
reading Sylvia Plath
*I no longer have suicidal thoughts and would not like this poem to be construed in a way that romanticizes that. Sylvia Plath was a fantastic writer and is heavily missed.
There's just something romantic about cornfields and 3am
Maybe it’s just the optimist inside of me
But the stars are shining so bright tonight, don’t you think?
They are so bright, the sky is so clear,
and I can feel your hand pressed against my side,
attached like a name
Maybe you’re afraid of the cold too
It was cloudy, the light on the edge of the horizon
Polluting the stars, they weren’t that bright
I feel you pull my body away from me
It’s so strange to feel warm, to feel anything
You embrace the cold
I cannot save you anymore than I can avoid becoming
The same sky I stare at
The breeze dances across my stomach as you bring me closer
Eyes staring into a cold sky
As you listen to me ramble on
About where the big dipper should be
If the stars were bright enough to see it
She belongs to the streets.
They’ve been calling her name
Since the day that he left
Stubs her toe on the curb
As she attempts to fly off
Into the traffic, with no second glance.