I listened to a song you showed me
for the first time in years.
It put me back in that room,
with the large windows
and strangely warm floors.
Those months we had
feel like a lifetime ago.
So much has changed, and yet,
here I am, writing a little
poem about a memory of us.
We talk less now,
as we grow older and further apart.
But I know there are little
strands of gray and black thread
tying us together.
Despite our distance,
I know you are there.
I want someone to write a song about me.
It doesn’t have to be much, hell,
it doesn’t even have to be positive,
I just want to be memorialized in tune.
Could you do that for me, one day?
You could learn the piano or the drums —
perhaps compose the entire piece
using boomwhackers.
I’ve had this dream for a while now.
I’m not sure where it comes from
or why I think a song would mean something
more than words strung together with rhythm.
It’s definitely a romanticised idea,
even if the song paints me in horrible
colors and in harsh light.
I am open to the scrutiny
because of the joy it would bring
to know someone could create art
from their, mine, our
emotions.
So, will you?
Perhaps it’s just a line or two,
something to hum
while waiting for an elevator.
Ha, what if it was the perfect
elevator song — but with words?
Many words rhyme with my name,
and those that don’t could be good too.
An app recommended me to write a love letter today.
You came to mind, and then you and you.
I debated for a while on who these words
were meant for and what exactly I wanted to say.
With you (and you)
my words fell short, as if I had nothing new,
nothing original to share.
And with you, you knew of my
care and thus my love, and I could easily say the words
to you as you said them to me.
I thought more about the love letter,
fully acknowledging the somewhat silliness of
obeying an algorithm in a computer.
It dawned on me that there is one person,
a person more unknown to you than me,
that I never wrote a love letter to.
I sat, back bent slightly, mulling over the words.
It felt strange at first, but soon my brain
tucked away the ungraceful thoughts.
Words like care and amazement and spunky
took the place of fearful and distant and spineless.
A cloud of sentences
floated above my head, glittering like a sky of stars.
I felt flushed and honored
to know these truths and feel this love.
I took a walk today
to clear my mind
and take in the world.
I pondered about
my life as I listened
to a playlist of songs
meant to carry me
in the quiet moments.
I stumbled, thinking
about you as a song
from a past love
(yet not love)
came on.
It made me laugh
and question
my line of thought
about you —
and that’s when I saw her.
She and her fawn,
enjoying the shade
of deciduous trees,
stared at me,
a clunky hiker.
I paused and smiled,
happy to share a moment.
As I slowly moved
to take a picture, I spooked
her and her babe.
The motion,
the desire to make a
moment in time last longer,
cut short the time I had.
I felt near shameful
for changing the energy
of the situation.
As I moved forward,
listening to a different song
and finding myself lost in a meadow,
I forgot what it was
that made me think of you.
I did think, however,
how peaceful it would be
to take shelter in that meadow
amongst the sumacs and blackberries
with the sun beating down
and a feather in my hat.
Have you ever thought about how you will never be able to read every book ever written
nor see all of the stars in the sky?
Have you ever thought about how you will never know every poet that passes by on the street
nor know the number of lives you’ve touched?
I’ve been thinking about hot air balloons and the hidden meaning of dreams.
I’ve been thinking about why life drags on as if a wagon pulled by a small child.
There seems to be so much said in the silence, yet are we only hearing what we dread or assume to be true without giving space to that which can break the quiet?
I am retracted wings
and loose emeralds.
I think about flying
when I think of him. I picture
big jet planes and carrier pigeons.
I don’t remember much from
my early years, years when
he still came home to us.
Us, the small group she formed.
Us against him.
I remember hand-painted stars
and that blue sketch, framed.
But I can’t apply dates or times
to the snippets of he and us.
I am stairwell talks
and stunted voices.
I hid, I feared sharing anything,
knowing and not knowing
that the burdens I carried for her
were not for me to hold or share.
I watched car lights through the window
and cried until my face was bright red.
I told a lie to him, a lie that held truth,
but still a lie, because I was sad and scared
and didn’t know the words.
I am shadows
and slanted light.
I feel seen and invisible with him.
I am so much like him,
perhaps more than he recognizes,
and it’s startling.
I always wanted to be like him,
but as I learn and grow,
I’m not sure if that’s true.
I want to be like me,
not rebelling because of her or
pleading because of him.
I am not a paperback writer
or an aquarium diver.
Yet, I yearn for something.
Did he settle? Will I?
Is there stability in love?
I know he tried. I know
there is more to the story than she shared,
and there is more than he gave.
I was young and he was quiet.
He did well, not ladening emotions
on me, as if a mule, and I thank him for it.
I am of collared shirts
and rental cars.
I loved those weekends,
the ones that became more
than a saturday night.
I loved staying at hotels
and eating sunday brunch at grandmum’s.
I miss the days of overnight bags
and hiking trails we knew by heart.
I am these memories
and there are so many more.
The scars on my knees
and words inscribed on my skin
tell you my story.
I’m stumbling as I retrace
these steps, not prepared
as I go to turn the corner,
unsure of what will appear.
So, I count to three, as he taught me,
and know that if anything bad was coming,
it would have gotten me already.
I talked with my papa
the other day.
I stood on a picnic table
trying to understand
the overlook I stopped at.
It showcased
the highway and trees
and a sliver of water
in the distance.
I pondered at him,
thinking about what
it would feel like to be
loved.
Loved in a way that
is not a parents love,
nor a platonic, tectonic
best friend kind of love.
He talked about
reassurance, and how
it’s hard to know someone’s
love without reminders —
words and actions
that point to the heart.
I nodded and yeah-ed,
watching the cars drive by.
It felt naive to think
I would know, that
I would feel it as if it were
a ray of sunshine on bare skin.
He said to love
is more telling.
To love —
to give parts of oneself
to others —
that is beautiful,
that is poetic,
that is more important
than being loved.
I smiled,
watching a family pull
up in front of my car.
I have loved many
in my life
and for that
I am grateful.
I have to stop.
I think now is the time.
I thank you for all
of the inspiration.
I thank you for all
of the sweet moments (and hard ones too).
I thank me for all
of the care, even in the darkness.
I just, can’t. Anymore.
It’s all too much.
That’s a common thread,
if you don’t remember.
Everything is always
too much, and yet
sometimes not enough.
But this poem,
this set of poems —
I think it’s time to move on,
to move forward
from what ifs
and what was.
I need to heal
outside of these words
because these words,
as beautiful and heartbreaking
I think they are,
only perpetuate
my bad brain musings
and habits.
So, this is
goodbye.
This is
the end of something
I never intended to start.
This is —
this was —
the story
of us.
I froze.
I put my head down,
unsure of what to do.
In the moment, I didn’t know if
it was for me, or more for you.
I stepped.
I slowed and tried to stay
outside of your periphery.
I became hyper-focused
with being invisible.
I dropped.
I hid in plain sight,
spotting beauty in a winter bloom.
Whether you saw me or not
doesn’t really matter.
I froze.
I froze.
I froze.
Of everything, everything
I thought would happen
when we finally met again,
I did not think my instinct
would be to cower, to fear.
Yet, these shaking hands
don’t lie. These eyes,
brimming with memories
of us and you and I, overflow.
I love(d).
I love(d).
I love(d).
It’s been so long,
and I’ve repaved this path,
covering the slosh of tears, snot, blood,
with gratitude, poetry.
Somehow, somehow
the tears, snot, blood
seeped through, my pages
drenched and indecipherable.
I tried.
I’m trying.
I am tired of trying.
But, tonight,
a friend asked if
the moon looked bigger,
and I couldn’t think
of another place to be.
Do you think about the dinosaurs?
What about the dodos?
Not the band, the bird.
Do you still have my book?
The one I let you borrow,
oh so long ago, when all of *this,*
did not exist between us?
What is *this,* you ask?
I think that’s up for you to decide.
For me, *this* is learning to grieve,
to keep living even when I’m tugged
towards the unknown.
*This* is finding paths for
distractions to become joys.
*This* is finding energy
and handing it to my heart,
gift-wrapped with a little tag
quoting Mary Oliver.
*This* might be nothing for you.
You might not even remember
all that was…
Hell, perhaps you lost my book.
One day I’ll reach out again,
using the book as both
excuse and knife
to cut the cords wrapped
around my wrists.
So It Goes 