I suppose I never will.

I can feel like I’m moving in a new direction, or letting go of all the painful things; only to quite suddenly miss him like he died just yesterday.

And in the past week, he’s been back in my thoughts. I long for him in the morning when I wake up, and his name is somehow written on my eyelids when I try to sleep.

It’s not like I have some kind of special date coming up. We’re coming close on the half-year mark, but I know I’m not hung up over it. I passed all my important dates this Summer with grace and ease, relatively speaking. I held my common tears and bit my lower lip in defiance. Grief did not take the best of me this year. I doubt it will do so, again.

But I really miss him lately. For no reason other than I miss him. I miss him enough to dream of his face, and his smile. To have a stolen moment with him, as if I have to ask for one. And his voice was so perfect in my ear, that I lay in bed for a few minutes past dawn, replaying it over and over again.

I wrote more poetry, thinking that would somehow expel what feels like an on-coming storm. It only made me realize how fresh I can bring him to mind.

I don’t have any  clichés or fancy words to say this time. I don’t know why I feel surprised that somehow my thoughts of him cannot be reality. I only know that I find myself wondering when I’ll see him next, as if he was just here. I have to remind myself that I can’t wish for what cannot be, and the disappointment feels foreign. I feel as if I am just figuring this all out all over again.

Will it always be this way?



Lucid 


We are ghosts here, pretending the party still lives.


The Sun; to poke his latent fingers through the broken glass,


pays no mind to our borrowed rally, its beams piercing right through.


And in my bony fingers, I possess a thousand breaths, each one


from a different moment touching your skin; and your arms, they


fit like branches around my neck.


We intertwine, growing vines and shedding dead leaves.


Around us we are all at once Fall and Winter;


cold and falling, but always alive.


The taste of you decays on my lips:


a fragment of old flowers and the memory of your favorite mints.


If I close my withered lids, I can see your face, green from


your dashboard radio, and hear the old lyrics to our favorite


echoing tunes.


So long ago, when the word girl could describe me


with impatience and awkward lust.


When my desire was stronger than my need,


and I so often confused the two.


My heaven is a vapor, a grey memory for


someone else’s sunrise dreams. Those last


vibrations, still bouncing around,


becoming ever quieter still. The last chance


to hear you say “I love you,” exactly as you did.


My grip, like Death, to refuse release on what I once


knew, keeps me a phantom, an ivory skeleton, hanging


silently in my darkened closet. I can wait here, and I do.


It’s easier than you think.




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