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
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.
What I can never be:
the “I love you” that lies in your arms at bed time,
the fire that warms your home,
the echo to your “It’s Monday” groan,
the perfume on your pillow,
the smile on your face,
the reason you rush home from work every day,
the hand you hold when you are lost,
the heart you kiss,
the words needed to remember your coffee,
the fashion consultant you need come laundry day,
the breakfast of champions,
the sweetest alarm clock,
the quietest “I love you,”
and the bravest hello.
What I can always be:
the reminder that you are loved,
the words that warm your soul through the paper,
the distant companion to your “It’s Monday” groan,
the perfume in a love letter,
the smile on your phone,
the person you call on your way home from work,
the one you reach for when you’re lost,
the heart that longs for you,
the text to remember your coffee,
the blind eye come laundry day,
the champion of breakfast,
the quietest alarm clock,
the sweetest, “I love you,”
and the bravest hello
I never thought would become
a goodbye.
Pen in hand,
blue ink on your thumb,
as you prepare
for the puzzle of the day:
Sometimes it was me,
usually it was a crossword.
By: Kyle Freelander
