Passion Pit is playing and I’m remembering your profile,
as we drove through Clayton, somewhere on Delsea and I
listened as you sang on key,
one hand on the steering wheel,
fingers on your free hand
I don’t ever remember hearing Passion Pit in your presence.
I wrote a story where you died and I visited your gravestone,
with two Coronas, in a baggy flannel and torn up Chucks because it was easier
for me to pretend you were dead than to accept you had willingly left.
I still want everything to do with you.
I have written probably over a hundred posts, prose, poems about you and I don’t know how to stop.
I don’t know what else to say to you to make you get it.
You broke me,
and I’m still sweeping up the pieces, trying to glue myself back together,
rise from the ashes…
but your smile still burns like raided villages,
and your laughter is the like the cries of terrified children
and murder and massacre take place simultaneously;
easier to believe in a harsher reality,
than accept and live with whatever the hell you did to me.
You fucked me up.
You fucked me over.
All without making love to me.
All because you tried to make memories.
All by making promises you never intended to keep.
Old songs are playing,
and I wonder if you would still sing along
if you knew all the words.
I wonder if you’d link the fingers of your free hand
with mine, and we could just drive,
in silence, in moments
that I live in more than reality.
I hate that I still think about these days,
I still think about you this way.
That it’s been almost nine months since August 28th,
and I still see you
sitting in the Lazy Boy as I sit at your feet.
I always bowed down to you,
kissed the ground you
I can’t get you out of my head and I hate it.
I hate it.