I wonder if he can feel me shiver in the middle
of the night when I’m lost in dreams you made into nightmares.
I wonder if he notices the way I trace
the ink on my skin and picture a hand of the past.
If I could I would make so many promises,
but I don’t trust myself to keep them.
My tongue has turned into ivy and they
wrap around words too soft for me to bear.
My skin has added a few layers from the cold
you left me with and I forget how soft
I used to be. That’s the thing, though.
You’ve taken who I used to be,
and twisted it.
His hands trace every scar I’m laced with,
kisses each dent and jagged edge as though
he could somehow fix my broken bits.
The worst part is, though,
I let him.
I kissed you, when every word I could think of was just too damn difficult to say. Words have never been easy but, dammit, I could kiss you hard enough to show everything through that one action. Don’t you dare tell me otherwise.
My breath would catch in my throat and my mouth would go dry. My heart would beat like a jackhammer and I would feel every flood of emotion in my blood. And I could still show it in every kiss.
Fingertips trailing on your skin, did you know I spelled out every word I felt over and over until it didn’t make sense?
I won’t talk about the maybe’s. I won’t talk about the could-have-been’s, what-if’s, and I-wonder’s.
But I can still recite the love that made up every cell from the moment I fell for you. It could still pour out of my mouth like I was never broken. They might not be pieced back together for you, but they could be created again. Under new management, anyway.
And I will close my eyes and tilt my head to the skies and pray for a new love in my pulse. My tongue will twist in my mouth until it can finally make the phrase anew: I love you.
Every heartbeat I feel is just a ticking clock counting down until my world explodes in new color that makes my blood boil and my mind soothe. Something so conflicting and calming and chaotic that it will take my breath away until all I can gasp for is the air from that connection.
Da Duh. Da Duh. Da Duh.
The clock is just counting down.
There’s a lonesome piece of myself still cold from your absence. I tell myself I’m okay now, I tell myself I’m fine.
Every cell I’m comprised of still feels the ache of missing and the ache of hurt; every cell still shivers with the memory of the cold.
My fingers can’t feel anything but you and everything else fees like water, or it feels like sand. My lips remember the imprint of yours and nothing else can sate them.
I can press myself further into him and close my eyes and repeat lies until they feel true but there’s a wide burden of you that’s still gaping and weeping. The stone in the center of my chest has no intention of budging or flexing and I can’t feel for anyone else what I could feel for you. I don’t know how to become pliable.
Your soul still lingers with mine and they dance in your memory.
I thought I was over you but it turns out the ghost of you left remnants in every crease I’ve ever been made out of.
There’s parts of something still holding on and I feel it cutting into the soft flesh and tearing me into pieces of myself.
Somehow I still miss you.
Somehow I can’t replace you in the heart of me that is made out of love.
Somehow I’m not letting myself let go of you.
Before you showed me what you were made out of, you were perfect for me. And I can’t seem to let that go.
When I’m lost in thoughts of you, I wonder if I’m anywhere in your head, too.
Do you remember my lips when your eyes have barely shut at the end of the day? Or my hands outlining the ink on your skin?
There are instances that flash in my head, like a movie I’ve only seen once, and I’m stuck knowing these parts of you that linger in my mind are shared with someone else. Your crinkled eyes from that wide smile is stuck in my head, and I know it won’t be for me again.
All I can wonder is if any of me stuck somewhere with you, too.
We keep our hearts
locked tightly away in boxes
some in the attic, some in the basement,
some in dusty rooms filled with memories
we refuse to change the sheets for
Time passes and the keys and the locks
rust over with a lack of use
so when we finally go to hand it over,
it turns to dust in their hands
I’ve got my own personal
glass bowl he gave me,
filled with the sand
of love I could never give
She’s sitting there. Just sitting there. The light’s shining brightly behind her so she almost seems blurred and a little transparent. You might think you could see through her, but you could never see through her.
She doesn’t notice me, and maybe that’s okay. Her eyes don’t find mine, and maybe that, too, is okay. I don’t know how I might handle that connection again.
There’s a paperback in her hands that she’s slowly reading, soaking in every word like she’d never read it before. Her hair is hanging in her face like a waterfall that I want to bathe in.
I can feel the cracks in my heart throb. I can feel the blood in my veins race. I can feel my brain pulse and I still want her. I miss her.
But I turn away. She no longer feels eyes on her so I’m sure she won’t look to see me. And that’s better.
But only as a picture.