It’s been a while now and I still miss the way she said my name.
I didn’t know my bones could ache
foreverfor so long.
They say there’s beauty in sadness but I don’t think so (at least not like this). When it’s 3am and alcohol is the only thing that helps me sleep.
They didn’t warn me that heartache doesn’t always have someone to blame. Sometimes it’s no one’s fault
(it’s probably all mine).
I found her sweater the other day and it still smells like her and that Spring we spent telling each other we’d be forever.
I didn’t really think about how forever could end.
She used to call me beautiful and look at me with eyes that meant it. Now I just don’t know how I’m supposed to hear that word from anyone else.
I’m somewhere caught between moving on and holding on and not knowing which one I can handle the most.
I feel messy and uneasy and I don’t understand how one person with pretty eyes can destroy an empire inside me just by walking away.
Her lips tasted like air after rain and these days all I do is think about the way they felt between my thighs.
My pillow isn’t her and the song on the radio isn’t ours. I sit next to a girl in class but we can’t talk for hours.
Where do I go when a lover and a friend becomes a memory and a dead end?
I saw her by the escalators last week, I smiled at her and she looked the other way. I felt my heart splinter all over again.
Sometimes I write her letters thinking maybe she’ll write back.
She never does.
I glance at you,
A smile, a frown,
Every move you make I try to fit into my version of reality.
I wished I never learnt how to read.
We blame our children’s rot on technology because we’d rather think someone else is their parent.
If glances were words we would be one never ending conversation.
The truth is, you can’t be bothered to speak to me at all.
It feels strange tearing petals off flowers saying He loves me,
he loves me not. More often I feel the need to tear off
my own limbs-I don’t care which ones. Arms, fingertips,
ankles, even kneecaps, as if I could pickle them in a jar
and send them to you wrapped in brown paper
as a kind of apology for always missing you
like phantom limb syndrome.
I am not thinking of you so much as the idea that
the ozone layer still has a long way to go before disappearing
like a rabbit into a magician’s black hat,
and I think it’s quite sad that we always had the capability
to deplete one another in a similar way.
Next to the home of my childhood, there is a mulberry tree
that stains the palms of children who crush its berries
into sweetness in their mouths.
I still bear the stains of you on my palms in all the places
we exchanged touches, no matter how many bars of lye soap
I buy under the watchful eyes of a disapproving shopkeeper.
They were not written in disappearing ink.
Forgive me for always being the plane ticket
when you wished I’d be the round trip to nowhere instead.
The real truth is, splinter or no splinter, I was never very good
at leaving my emotional baggage behind on any of my travels.
Why is it called a wake when you will never again?
Is it because of the tens, hundreds of times they say your name,
Experiences from you, collated and shared in a small sanctuary?
Afterwards your name be forever spoken softly, hushed voices like a secret.
Full stops are really sad.
They signify endings, they only appear when things are done.
They are that one person that only manages to reach a party when it’s about to end, never getting to live through the capital, the sentence,
And worse is that they are the ones to kill them.