Act.

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I’ve stumbled upon a familiar pain.
While previously distant,
it’s become an intimate friend.

I’ve wished things were different
on every shooting star and every
11:11 clock reading.

Foolish games, I suppose —
the acts of a child in distress
trying to find peace
in the hypothetical-verse.

Yet, I watched the clock tonight
and did the same thing.

I knew it would change nothing;
you are you,
and I am me.

We are worlds apart
when all I want is to hold you.

We are not a ‘we’ now,
even though I long to be.

We were short — fleeting.
A beginning that never began.

I didn’t think it would end,
but I guess that’s what happens
when someone puts on an act.

The show ends, the players bow,
and the theatre empties.

Only, I am left in my seat,
laden with anguish,
forgotten.

I hear the doors lock,
and the aching in my head
reverberates through the room.

Rambling.

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I don’t want this anymore;
what ‘this’ is, is hard to describe.

My hands have been shaking for weeks.
I’m scared, and I don’t understand.

If I cried out,
would it sound like a whimper
or more like a roar?

I feel scattered,
existing in multitudes across
plains of yellow grass,
busy sidewalks,
and quiet tree-tops.

I want something and nothing,
served only in teaspoons.

I think I’ve lost part of myself.
Have you seen my lungs?

They may have fallen out somewhere
down there, yeah, near those rocks.
Nothing there? Strange.

I am confused and hurt and
want nothing more than what I’ve had.
That’s what stings.

It feels like a hundred wasps
have entered my bloodstream
and are traveling straight for my heart.

How many wasps would it take?

A piece of tape on my computer
says ‘there is more to this story.’
I’m not so sure anymore.

Who gets to control that anyway?
Is it me? God? Other?

What was it that that one person said?
I’m sorry, so sorry.

What if my last letter to the world
was an autobiography?
My whole life, typed out in stanzas.
It would be long in oh-so many ways,
but also short. Bitter.

Each page would tell of
lies I thought were true,
truths that hurt too much for me to believe,
and everything else that fell in between.

One chapter, maybe,
would be sweeter,
like a grapefruit topped with sugar —
still bitter underneath,
but with a sweet exterior
enticing you to consume more.

Entangled.

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The woods turned from yellow to red
as I rounded the curve of a path
we once walked down together.

All I wanted was to share that moment
with you. The snapshot continues to
float across my vision, pesky as a fruit fly.

I’m so entangled with you
(even just the thought of you)
that I fear, to detangle,
I will lose a bit of myself to you,
to the situation, to the atmosphere.
As I breathe out,
love-concern-grief drips from my mouth
to dampen the collar of my shirt.

If only it was as easy as it was
that one day, (you know the one)
where we walked and talked —
laughed even.

I miss the rain and the wet grass;
I miss the tilt of your head;
I miss the quickness of your smile.

I want to tell you these things and more,
but I fear hurting further and loving less.
So, I exist in this complexity of human emotion,
trying to let self bleed through
in each action I take.

Autumn.

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If I fell, would you hear it? Feel it?

My legs ache from carrying this weight; my knees buckle with each step.
I don’t know how much further I can go.
Something pulls me along when all I want to do is sink in the decaying leaves.
Someday soon, I just might.

Yellows and oranges of autumn cry out, each leaf begging to be seen in one last explosion.
Only, I see them as final flames burning against the stark coldness of winter — defiant.
Until you, I’ve never seen them so vibrant.

Would.

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If I was to send you every poem I have ever written about you, would you read them?

All of my questions, musings, and feelings would be free for your interpretation.
Each word, each twinge of my heart, would be available for scrutiny.

Part of me thinks it would solve my dilemma — my dilemma being that this is harder than anticipated.
If only you knew, I’ve thought, then I’d have clarity, somehow.
Clarity on what? I’m not sure.

I don’t expect you to change your feelings, but if, for some reason, you felt the same,
maybe, maybe we could work something out.

This is a pipe-dream, I know. We split for reasons that don’t fall into the traditional categories.
We are an enigma.

But, I like the hypotheticals.
It’s ironic, I lean towards the warmth of imaginary situations and shiver in the present coldness.

One day, I’ll learn to create my own fire, but today, I sit within the flames built by dreams.

Mind.

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I wouldn’t say my mind is racing,
but it does focus on you, a lot.
I don’t intend to, honestly.
Something just keeps drawing me in.

Perhaps it’s the mystique of our parting.
Is that dramatic of me, to call it so?
It feels accurate,
especially while I sit here,
wanting to understanding that which
I don’t think I’ll ever get to know.

I want to step into your mind,
curl up on the floor and watch.
I don’t know what I’ll see, but
what I’ve imaged
is vibrant and heartbreaking.

Those words don’t even begin
to describe it though.
How could one, anyways,
illustrate the intimacy of another’s mind?

Maybe, if I got the chance,
I could try to paint it for you.
I’d show you your world
through my eyes.

Wouldn’t that be crazy?

I wonder what I would look like
through your eyes.
Would I even recognize myself?

Do you remember?

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Do you remember the first time
you told me you liked me?
We sat under an old hickory tree,
watching the rain come closer over the mountain.

Do you remember the last time we kissed?
It was on a mountain,
in a rain storm.

Just as summer fades to autumn,
autumn grows sleepy for winter,
winter melts into spring,
and spring blossoms into summer,
we followed a pattern —
made our own season of sorts.

I can feel the weather shifting.
My head, my bones ache,
akin to the soreness in my heart.

You were my perfect rain shower,
and I,
I was your hurricane.

Do you remember those days,
and all of the ones in-between?

Do you remember,
on the day of our last kiss,
you said, “I should have
kissed you that day in the rain”?

Memories flood and retreat,
and the rain washes away
the moments I hold tight to my chest.

Distance.

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Everyday,
we actively decide who
we want to be with.

Sometimes,
it’s not even a question.

Other times,
one jumps through hoops
to make sense of their relationships.

I’m not a fan of jumping.
I’d rather walk or run or bike.
Maybe that’s why I’m struggling.

I’m unsure of how much is too much.
I want to put you first, in many ways,
but I also intend to be front-and-center.
Is it self-led to want connection?

My dilemma isn’t unique,
but maybe different on some level.
So here I sit, thinking
and listening to one song
on repeat.

Sleep.

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It’s hard to convince myself to sleep.
I worry that another dream of you will come
and I will be left with more questions than answers.

(Why did dream you ask me to go camping?
You were cryptic and suggestive;
I was confused and scared of expectations.
But how romantic of you, to plan a trip for us,
where all I had to do was pack an overnight bag.)

It’s easier to wake up alone
than fall asleep alone,
knowing that, in the waking hours,
I have full awareness of our situation,
while dream me
only searches for the hypotheticals.

The last few nights,
I’ve tossed and turned,
unknowingly searching for your body in the dark.
All I have is an unforgiving pillow,
cold from the drafty window.

Have I told you how cold it is in my room?
Averaging 60 degrees each night,
I have to sleep with socks on.
Even the cat doesn’t sleep with me now.

Change.

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Would it take 2 seconds?
Maybe 3?
What comes after the silence,
that is what I want to know.

Everything would be light,
then dark, then nothing.

Energy would shift from
my body to earth,
and earth to star,
and star to elsewhere.

I want you to know,
it wasn’t because of you.

This is a question
I have sought for years now.
It’s a pity you coincide with it.