this is not how i dreamed
i’d spend my thursday
deteriorating mental image
staring at me

i’ll do what must be done
to keep you a little longer
foolish of me to think
i could keep you at all

i wish there was a term
for the way your lips feel
when they spell out the words
“i love you”

or something that could capture
the way the clock stops
when you’re the only one i can see
in the room

oh, i’ve searched every dictionary
every thesaurus entry
for “love”
and i’m still looking, but babe
i don’t think i’ll ever find
the words

i waited up so many nights hoping i would be lucky enough to get a “hey” from you. he keeps me up too, but it’s because we’ve been talking all day and the conversation still hasn’t come to an end. he keeps me up because talking to him gives me more of a glimpse into paradise than dreaming about you ever could.

my father has always been very adamant about putting sunscreen on the tops of your feet.
apparently it's one of the easiest places to burn because it's so forgettable.

lately, I've been feeling like this summer isn't really summer.
I'm sure this is a collective feeling.

but today, I got in a pool for the first time since last year.
I burned the tops of my feet.

I had to hide it from my dad, but it made me feel a little more alive.

Fading
Like a beauty queen
Grown old,
Sunrise is too quckly over.
ljm

i.

I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.

ii.

Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.

iii.

My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?

iv.

My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.

v.

Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.

vi.

It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.

vii.

truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.

viii.

I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.

But, how could I?

When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.