I miss the feeling of your lips on my forehead
even though you were saying goodbye
for the last time, it felt like hello,
introducing me to something I never felt before,
especially not with you, not knowing
you were destined to be so much more
to me than tingly lips on my face
saying goodbye as I beg for
You infiltrated
the spaces
between,
even though I told you
from the start
I would never
be your home.
You must leave,
you must go.
Pack your things,
do as you’re told,
for I am coming for you,
rent never due,
and with a slice
of minty white,
I will get rid of you.
And the teardrops on my face
won’t startle you awake
anymore –one foot out the door,
two smiles on the floor, fighting.
Teeth chattering on a warm night:
one says, “I love you,”
and the other says, “It isn’t right.”
You get me to apologize
for not saying sorry before
when the words still held meaning
for you and your ego,
when your ears wanted words
and promises I couldn’t afford
to give you then,
and, as I try to pay you back,
I can already see the effect
my words no longer have
on your worn out ears
that only ever showed up here
because you love
to watch me squirm.
I push you away with such force
that I tell myself I have lost you for good,
but you know to give me space,
to stay out of my path long enough
for me to keep moving forward
and for you to prepare
for yet another sneak attack.
But you are so predictable.
You always return to me.
I let myself believe for a moment
that you really are pure. Blinded
by sparkles and lust I reach
for you once more, but you are cold,
so very cold, that I remember
all the reasons you and I
could never be together.
You are so predictable.
You always return to me.
This time there are screams
coming from deep inside me
and I shove you with all my might
until you fold and crumble off
into a soiled pile on the side
of the road every winter you dare
to get in the way, the winters
I am pulled out of my house
in order to plow you away.
But you are so predictable.
You always return to me.
I don’t usually dedicate my poems, especially ones on my blog, but I am mixing it up this time. Someone who is very close to me is feeling some serious heartbreak right now, and I wrote this poem with her in mind. It has been a few months now, but the heartbreak is just as real as if it were yesterday. I want her to know that I feel that, and I want to help her through it.
As most people know, that is a hard task for anyone. So, I have taken to what I know best: writing. This is a poem about love just as much as it is a poem about loss, and I dedicate it to my beautiful friend. You are more than like a sister to me. <3
” ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” -Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Our Demise
I.
His eyes are wide with smiles, and I wonder how I am so lucky.
II.
I ask him what he sees in me.
He simply replies, “What others do not.”
III.
It is late one night when I say, “You feel like home.”
IV.
He tells me that I am beautiful today
and kisses me on the forehead.
My skin enters into a waltz I cannot control
but have no desire to wish away.
V.
I tell him he is my future, and he replies, “I’m okay with that.”
VI.
He stares at me quietly
and I feel the minutes wind
around my lungs and loop
themselves into a tingling hello
that precedes the words, “I love you.”
My insides do somersaults for days.
VII.
Everything is perfect until it is not.
VIII.
I ask him to open up to me,
but he keeps me in the dark.
Once again I hold his hand,
but I know I don’t have his heart.
IX.
His fingertips pull away, and I beg for them to come back.
X.
I catch him in a lie again and he knows
to say, “I’m sorry,” but he says nothing more.
XI.
His eyes are wide with miles, and I wait for goodbye.
I don’t know how
to be someone you miss
as much as football season,
or holiday drinks at Starbucks,
the kiss of a new year,
a hand held on Valentine’s day,
a free slurpee on July 11th,
the smell of the ocean,
the stroke of a snowflake,
the taste of a new book
devoured by your fingertips.
I watch you grieve
the loss of all these things
from afar and I wish
that I could console you,
that I could tell you
these moments will come again,
but being missed
is not my area of expertise
and you know that
better than anyone.
I make a wish to cleanse myself,
to be pure in your eyes and a saint
in your mind. My past it follows me
like a shadow nailed to my feet
and even Peter Pan can’t change
the way I am, save me from mistakes
I was bound to make when I left
breathe
oxygen
for they must grow gills
to become one with water
and none with air, to have
nostrils sewn shut for speed;
to decrease water resistance.
cry
underwater
for this is not a saltwater pool
and our tears will be eaten
by chlorine and slapped
away by flippers. It is a waste
not to be wasted.
eat
food
for it makes them sink
with an aching cave that holds
them to the ground and keeps
them from moving forward
and upward and deeper.
Don’t get lapped.
You’re not allowed to.
