When And You

Fri, 11/13/2015 - 19:27 -- Alex_M

When I feel

the bass guitar

thrumming long strokes

inside my chest,

swimming backwards

along my spine,

it reminds me

I am alive.


When I allow

the tinny audio

stream from

earbuds hanging

on threads, pinching

the chords just so

that they work,

I am holding my


gripped in a fist,

knuckles blanched red as I cradle

carefully the inhuman emotionality.


When, when, when

I steal notes

I croak coarse vowels

while liquid beads the mirror

and in the dark,

I let myself try to cry

and I fail.


Then I press a button

to some channel

playing on the radio

am I, I am


how cold it was

this time last year,

how you texted me one last time

asked me to be your friend

and couldn't we have been that from the beginning?


When you let me

write you a song

break my guitar over you

and you shouldn't thrum in my chest

and you shouldn't be on my lips

and in my poetry at all

and we were nothing

and I find it hard to remember your name

or the feelings we had

or how it wasn't really you

or how knowing you made me feel a hole

or how that hole existed long before I desperately

or how I texted back OK

or how I wish I had told you it wasn't.


If I hadn't known you, I would never have known what I was missing.

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