Tag: relationships

Peas

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I’ve been wanting to write.

Words swirl around in my brain,
but I have no funnel to let them out.

Once, I wrote that my autobiography
would be written in stanzas —
my last act a poem to the world.

This is not that poem.

The words blink in and out
like fireflies, slowly
shedding light that quickly
extinguishes.

This poem feels like a letter,
a note to you
and perhaps even you.

But I don’t have the words right;
I can’t figure out the order,
as if I’m a type-setter
and this is my printing press
and the letters won’t click in correctly.

I want to tell you about the roots,
the silly truths and lies,
the movement of water across the planet.

I want to explain what is hard to say,
and yet, I’m fumbling.

Perhaps the words don’t matter,
I mean, have they ever?

Maybe the oaks and peas
know about us.
Maybe all that I want to say
has already been said.

Cradle and grave

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What’s the first thought
that comes to your mind
when you hear that phrase?

Is it a sweet memory,
something that curls
up the corners of your mouth?

Does it sting,
leaving an aching
in each nook of your body?

Maybe, maybe
buttercups sprout
from your fingertips,
and bees buzz across
your eyelids

as the words
drip lazily from the page.

I think of laughter,
and living on the road.

I think of Saturday Morning,
and middle spoons.

I think of space facts,
and all of the inevitabilities.

Mostly though,
I think of past and present,
and how it informs the future.

I think of you,
the what-ifs,
and how there is no
right answer.

The moon again

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The moon is loud tonight,
clashing cymbals
and drum rolls.

You once said,
in not so many words,
“think of me when you look at the moon
because I will also be looking (but at a different moon, obviously).”

Even in what could be
a serious moment,
you have me laughing.

It’s crazy what happens when
you let people in
and they let you in.

There’s so much
to give and to take,
to hold and to allow
to be held.

I don’t know
if you’re experiencing
the same moon,
but damn is
she keeping me up.

You and this floating feeling

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I feel like I’m floating,
floating in some great abyss,
but it’s not dark in here.

It’s blinding, blinding
with light and stars
and dust and vastness.

Answers. Plans.
Less distance.

That’s what
I’m thinking about
when I think of you.

These thoughts
aren’t entirely self-driven.
They are out of care, for you.

I grew so attached,
so quickly,
and I think you did too,
else this wouldn’t be so hard.

I’m comfortable
in this floating,
but I know that’s not shared.

What is your gut saying?
Does it align with your left-brain?

I hope I’m not making this harder
for you by sharing these thoughts.

I know, I probably am —
me and my glue-like tendencies.

Yet floating here,
and liking you so dearly,
it feels easy, simple.

I’ve got the feathers,
the breeze beneath my wings
to carry on like this.

Is it sustainable?
Maybe, maybe not,
but I think that’s
something we get to define.

March 29

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Do you ever feel forgotten?

It’s hard,
to feel like people see right through you;
to think,
it wouldn’t make a difference if I left;
to wait,
wanting someone, anyone, to acknowledge you.

(I)
I sat in silence,
having given all my energy up
to a conversation that never carried.

I don’t know what to do with it,
this feeling.
How do I call someone in
when they appear to not care?

Why do I continue to give energy,
if I receive none in return?

(II)
I sat, disconnected from them,
both by distance and phone static.
I had nothing to share,
feigning a pre-occupied brain
for the lack of substance.

What makes a relationship real?

Is it only showing up in the hard times?
Is it calling once a month to check in?
Is it this system that never changes?

Because I’ve tried, tried
to be more present.
But my presence isn’t the issue
when I am the only one there.

(III)
I see you see me,
but these words in my brain
can’t find you fast enough.

You show up, over and over again,
as I think I do for you,
yet there’s something missing.

It feels like there’s a kink in the hose,
a bubble in the syringe.

It must be me, right?
For my head is full of poison
that I don’t want you to hear;
for my heart is broken
in so many more ways
than you know.

One might tell you to turn inwards,
to find peace with self,
but isn’t happiness only real when shared?

Another poem.

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The sky looks like cotton candy,
and it’s reminding me of you.

You always said those were your favorite colors,
the outrageous pink — so misunderstood —
and the bright blue,
brighter than the blue in my eyes
the day you said you liked me.

You also loved the sky,
talking about the stars
and gazing
and the moon
and swaying together at night.

I told myself I wouldn’t write another poem,
yet, here I am,
filled with these words I didn’t intend to think
nor write.

I saw you today; did you see me?

I tried to avoid you, mostly on purpose.

I don’t feel neutral towards you yet,
but I don’t feel pulled either.

Finished.

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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.

Question.

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I have a question.
Well, many questions.

I’ve been wondering about them
for a while now.

What,
what if I don’t want to move on?

What if,
what if what I felt with you,
was all I ever needed —
will ever need?

What,
what if what I want is nothing
prior or future?

It scares me to write these thoughts down,
as if to put pen to paper,
or finger to key,
makes what is thought true.

But, is it true?
If I move on, will I sabotage
or break or hurt another’s heart
because mine is so broken?

They say moving on is part
of the healing process,
and though I’ve felt that before,
you seem different.

You,
as if those three letters
represent the whole
of what was us,
just two letters.

I don’t know where
I want to go with this,
or why I thought to write these
questions out for strangers to read,
but maybe,
maybe it’ll make sense one day.

Scared.

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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.

Written.

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I’ve written much on
feelings of sadness and dread
and loneliness and pain.

I’ve written much on
being in a state of flux,
confused.

I’ve written much on
how dreams are scary,
and how I wish *this* was different.

I’ve written much on
you and you
and you.

One could say you
are my muse.
You are fuel, at least.

My fire is burning
brighter and brighter
with every word,

every thought,
that escapes my
crumbling mind.

I’m tired —
I think I’ve written
much on that too.

But this flame,
this red-hot sore
bursting from my lungs,

from my eyes,
my lips,
screams for attention.

“Look at me! Look at me!”
it says when peace
comes to visit.

I listen, of course,
and I watch and wait,
a vessel to whatever comes.

Could I mold this fervor,
this light?
Maybe,

maybe the brightness
I yearn for
sits within me.

Maybe I will be
consumed in light —
but not in a fiery event —

simply as a side-effect
of letting whatever is inside
shine.