I sit on the bench where you first looked in my eyes and gave me everything; I never appreciated how something so simple could save my life. It’s a bitter memory now, the tree beside it finally grown out into something ugly and lonely, with branches like broken arms groping for me, and I long for them to take me back to you.
I thought I was leaving it pure, that if we left us somewhere in a garden we would never have to burn. Now the picture in my head is black. I wake up sometimes, choking on my shame and wonder if you went alone. Was your mother with you, a hollow replacement of where I should have been, where I never should have left. Did your mind leave you first, or your body? I can’t decide which would kill your spirit more; you always could command the world with either.
I try to leave my memory at that day when the sun was hot on our scalps, your hair long and uncombed, flying in your eyes, plain feet getting lost in the sand. I felt like my face would split in two, oh we were so young, you and your nativity thinking we could survive on imperfect poetry and love, I so stupid for not believing in that.
It kills me to think about how easily you would forgive me, how many more time I could have held your fingers in mine, how many more pieces of home I could have stolen from your eyes meeting mine. I drown myself in drink, trying to poison the taste of your kiss from my mouth.
And when finally my last breath, that so long ago had fallen out of melody with yours, sputters out into an empty world, I know still I will never be with you.
Year:
2016
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