Coping Still

And if I had stayed,
I'm not entirely sure where I'd be coming
home to.
If your lap would become rest stop
for my head,
would your fingers travel through my hair
a map made by tangles, the way they did
the first night I kissed you?

Were we really like that once?

And if I had stayed,
would that home be welcoming?
Would I not miss you the way I do now,
except be physically closer?
Would you leave the sound of lasers and
boss levels to stay with me until I slept?

But I didn't stay.
And lately I miss you more than less.
But I don't regret leaving,
because in the process,
I reclaimed myself.

So I'll stay lonely.
And the questions can remain unanswered.
It hurts, but it's truly for the best.

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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.

The hardest part.

The hardest part,

the hardest part,

is knowing that I still 

love you, that I 

still miss you,

that I could’ve changed it,

forgotten my pride and my worth

in a minute,

and knowing how much you 

you loved me,

said you loved me,

and you will be able to move on,

possibly tonight,

while in six months,

I’ll still love you.

I’m scared that I will

always, always love you.

Twice Bitten

There is a lipstick smudge
on the side of my mouth
and I am conversing
with two boys I’ve kissed.

The irony is this:
I had just finished lunch.
And while I am hugging one,
I’m talking to the other
an ex,
and of all the songs to come on shuffle:
“I Won’t Give Up” on us.

God knows, you weren’t tough enough.

But you’re the one to see me in distress,
tell me to remove the lipstick from
my face.
Before I plea helpless and we fall back
into pattern of conversing
like the best friends we were.

But she comes over,
glowers in the corner.
Like what?
Who don’t you trust?
But that’s enough for me to say goodbye,
but not before I get
one last hug.

And I’m glad there is no tide
of second chances rolling around,
that sometimes God speaks and other times it’s just a sound.

But my ex told of my smeared face.
My ex tried to fix the fake misplaced shame.
My ex laughs exactly the same.

And I don’t miss us.

But sometimes,
when life is screwing me over,
I remember it’s possible
to find somebody
to love.

You Are the Only Feasible Partner

 

Dance one last time with me.
I’m not saying,
“Fall back in love with me.”
I’m saying let me fit myself against you
so that the sound
and rhyme won’t go to waste
on some body
who doesn’t have an ounce of good music taste.

I’m saying put your 
hands on my hips
and remember how I dip.

I’m saying
let’s a speak in language of physicality
and have no words escape our lips. 

I’m saying slide across from me.
I’m saying sway to the side with me.
I’m saying let’s clap in time together
one last time.

Let’s pretend everything’s alright
until we are sweat-covered and
heady.

Let’s make music together
one last time,
but only with our bodies.

“My Heart” Will Go On

I just found the letter
you wrote me for our two months
in December of 2011.
Remember that?

With it was a flashdrive of
five songs
that made you think of me.
To this day, it’s still
one of the most sincere gifts
that I have ever received.

Unfortunately from a fake.

Because I was cleaning out the top drawer,
where I keep playbills and tickets and other trinkets
from simple adventures and memories.
I was finding his employee ID and the Malaga receipt.
The straw-wrapper turned ring he made for me.
In the same drawer I found a phone number from Zeke.

And honestly,
I’m surprised I still had your gift from our two month anniversary.

Your broken promises
you couldn’t have known you were making.
The sprinkled words like “perfection” and
“happy”.

At one point, I made you happy.

But though the letter was addressed
“To: My Heart”
apparently, I go by the name of
“Baby.”
I’m surprised that in the whole month of September,
you never slipped up and called me:
“Ki.”

Sweetie,
your letter is once again amongst those
receipts, IDs, and ugly memories;
right in the trash,
10 months late,
but where it should be.

Nope; This is DEFINITELY Unhealthy

I wonder if I do it for you.

I wonder if this bad
poetry,
these cry for helps,
the senseless tagging,
I wonder if you’re the reason 
I’m still writing.

And it is true,
I never wrote love poems until I met 
you.
That is something 
my ex can attest to.

However,
what started as catharsis brings more
attention and seems less
like art than it did before.
I wonder if I’m writing 
to keep myself sane
or to keep the hope alive 
that I still walk your brain.

Am I encrusted against the
grey matter or the white?
Am I a voice inside your head or
the thing that keeps you up at night?
Do you think about me in snippets or
tidal waves?
Does an image of me even cross 
your mind at all during the day?

Have you pushed me out of your head
for months now
without even a
“Good-bye”?
And if so was it letting go,
or running away 
to give the illusion that
you still had some pride?

I want to know why I’m writing.
Because it doesn’t seem like it’s for me 
anymore.
If it ever was.
I want to know if my poetry
is my way of saying,
“I’m okay” if they ever think of me
and want to catch up.

And that’s why this is unhealthy.
Because they’ve all moved on,
you see.
And here I am writing,
blogging,
wondering if they ever wonder about
if they ever check up on
if they ever hark back on memories of
me.