When the “Door” Shuts

So the boy
you loved three years ago,
cried two years OVER,
finally is in a relationship again.

And you cry,
before you remember

this is the same boy
who told you not dance in your seat,
who smiled when he dimmed the happiness in your eyes,
who left,
who GHOSTED—

So the boy
you LOVED three years ago,
maybe never stopped wanting
in some way shape or form,
is finally in a relationship again

and you spend the next five hours on YouTube
dancing in your seat,
and this time, it only takes 300 minutes
rather than 730 days
before you’re smiling again.

It’s a Given

It’s got to be summer.
The windows are down.
“Chicken Fried”
or “Brown Eyed Girl”
or something that is
irrevocably
warm, wind-in-air
plastered smiles,
hands raised through a
sun roof
good
is playing off the radio.

This is my version,
so we’re driving down the Causeway.
And the reeds are whipping
to and fro
and your fingers are locked with mine
hand is raised to your lips,
because you know I like that.
And you let me sing,
you smile when I dance in the passenger seat.

We hit the bridge
the same time as the chorus.
I look out over the river
I’ve grown up
and around
and between from
and thank God for the marshland.
Thank God for the tiny hometown
where I spent summers feeding ducks,
writing on the porch swing,
letting the sun kiss me in all the places
you will touch so tenderly.

And when we reach the curb at my mom-mom’s,
you walk around the car,
open my door
and start singing to me,
as I lead you down the street,
past my church,
holding your hand,
taking you through my childhood,
enjoying a summer day,
realizing love can be
warm, no traffic,
fireflies at the first sign of dusk,
laughter in the
moon light
good.

Stay, just a little bit longer.

It is 12:07AM and I am
listening to Dion’s cover
of “Dream Lover” and
writing about graveyards.

Tell me in the future,
when I rake my fingers through my bangs,
have the pen behind my ear
and the desk light focused on the manuscript,
you’ll join me in the study,

Tell me
you’ll sing
“I want a dream lover,
so I don’t have to dream alone.”

Tell me
you’ll come up behind me,
kiss my head
and then retreat to the couch
that sits in my secluded space.

That you won’t leave
when the well is running low.
That you will stay when the ink
on the quill has dried.

Promise me
that you’ll stay
even if the writing’s dark,
even if Johnny Mathis fills the space
meant for shadows.

Promise me
you’ll stay when the ghost take over the pages
and the heads roll between the lines.

Love me
because even though I write death scenes
on nights like these,
when the music is happy
and my fingers are crying,

I’m a simple girl
who lives for fairytales
and wants her own happy ending.

Which Hurts Worse

I’m crying
so that only leads
to writing poetry.

That what you want
isn’t necessarily easy.
That having someone
fall out of love with you,
even if you want them to,
is still heartbreaking.

That you know it’s the right thing
and yet,
tears still stream.

So,
you’re hurting again.

Everything,
this year, seems to end
all at once.

And you’re still too scared to run.

To chase after anything
worth having
to make you feel loved,
because you lost
another one.

And, even you’re surprised
that a piece of your heart went
with them.

So you cry
and write the poem.
You don’t say you love
them
’cause it’s not the kind of
love they want.

This time,
if they choose to go,
you’ll let them.

Fabrication

Listen,
if life was like a book,
you would have just been a chapter
and I could’ve closed it,
moved on
found closure.

And
to some people
I “fabricate” things,
I
turn people into characters
and pull out the pieces that seem
“most promising”
like all my friends
are hellbent on
destroying me
I
take companions because I can’t
combat the lonely.

Now,
because I am a writer,
I must be good at fantasizing;
and every story I wrote about us,
every poem I wrote for him,
every back my nails scratched into
must make one hell of a map
back to an altered reality,
because none of those things
happened actually;

and if this life was a book,
I’d have already skimmed through to the ending.
I
wouldn’t waste time on exposition
and backstory.
I would look for dialogue
and every romantic scene.
I would be a plotline
fully developed
and there would be fanfic about
this life I lead.

So listen,
if MY life is really just a matter
of creating a made up hero
to keep me company,
if I’m writing about
or “pulling from” anybody,
let them be the love interest,
let them be the protagonist,
let them all resemble a character worth rooting for.

Let them be me.

While You’re Figuring Yourself Out

At the end of the day,
you’re not here anymore.
Whether that is metaphorical
as well as physical
is still indecipherable,
but nonetheless,
you aren’t the big brother
you’d said you’d be.

And that used to bother me.

(I guess you can argue
that still does
if I’m putting you in poetry,)
But the truth is this:

While I’m not where I want to be,
I’m stronger.
And while I’m still working out the kinks,
I know what I stand for.

When love walked out,
what did you turn to?
And I know you may never tell me.

And that’s okay,
because at the end of the day,
even if this is a fluke,
even though this is barely a thread of a friendship
and a fray of the past,
this time I’ll be just fine when you leave.

Did you know,
I’m learning how to quiet the anxiety that used to keep me up for hours?
Did you know when my head hits the pillow,
I now have peace?

Because when I walked away from love,
I went back to belief.

Your Eyes on Little Me

I’m excited
for when you become a dad.

This isn’t the normal break-up poem,
about how I would’ve been the perfect mom,
how our children
would be a reason for staying together all this time,
or a way to make-up for “never getting over”
you,

because I have.

But “Next to You” is playing
and I’m feeling nostalgic.

So let me say that I’m excited
you’d be the father
that lets his child believe
they can fly.
You’ll be the daddy
his little girl comes running to,
the one she’ll want the love of her life to be modeled after.

Promise me
you’ll never lose that light in your eyes
and the laugh
that shakes a whole room.
Promise me
you’ll tell them
all the good and bad things
and you’ll recall with clarity
the moments that made you,
you,
for them,
to them.

It’ll take time,
but when I see a dad charging toward his kid
like a plane,
I’ll see you.
And when I see a child
laughing,
it’ll sound like you.

We grew apart,
but promise me,
you’ll never grow up.