Things I Saw When You Walked Out The Door For The Last Time
-
A fountain of love letters;
ardent, over-exhausted,
bursting at the seams with pure affection,
unfurling out upon
pink and purple parchment paper,
with the gushed red vein-drip
of pen ink and lipstick;
words blurred together
from tears and spit.
Words we couldn’t have
the guts to say out loud.
-
The ocean,
wide and unwavering;
The intimate routine of
waves rolling onto tide is
so routine, it becomes a
Foundation that
all else is built upon.
Perhaps, it’s a metaphor,
for what we are.
Or what we were?
(It still hurts to think about;
The wound is still open.)
-
Your jacket,
the blue one
with all the pins and buttons
that you wore on
our first date,
at the aquarium.
The one you lent me
without question
whenever I shivered
from the mid-November
cold.
It’s still sitting under my bed.
-
You,
in fragments, scattered across
each corner of my lifetime
like pieces to an unfinished puzzle.
Your eyes hidden in the mid-June sky,
Colors bleeding together so naturally
they felt one and the same.
Your hands embedded in park benches,
the ones that held mine for so long
I thought they would never let go.
The corners of your mouth
on the windowsill of my
(our?)
kitchen, where we kissed,
and laughed,
and danced.
You were everywhere.
Now,
You’re gone,
and you left me behind
to collect the fragments.