Things I Saw When You Walked Out The Door For The Last Time

Sat, 12/07/2019 - 17:35 -- sulky37
  1. 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. 

 

  1. 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.)

 

  1. 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. 

 

  1. 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.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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