Let them talk about us.
Let them wonder if “us” still exists.
Let their ears burn and their tongues wag.
I have no interest in opinion or interjection.
My life might be an open book,
But my heart, my hurts are mine alone.
I say I still love you
And you say you still love me.
But we are always lying.
Sometimes it’s me
And sometimes it’s you
But we both pretend we believe
so that we don’t hurt each other.
Someday our lies
Will catch up to us
And then who will we lie to?
I have this long standing belief,
In spite of all previous experiences to the contrary
That love will find me again
Except this time, it will blossom into a garden where now only lies dry soil
And it will be overflowing enough for everyone to get a share and come home with their own love to pass around.
So while I momentarily grieve each broken heart,
I remain steadfast in the hope that the next one will be that kind of love.
I tried fixing your heart
and you let me.
Out of kindness, I suppose.
Who knows?
But upon careful examination,
My unfavorable conclusion
Is that your heart’s not broken.
It just doesn’t beat for me.
Your face is a poem.
With eyes that dance to a meter,
and lips that speak in rhyme.
I sometimes understand you.
But mostly, I find you open to interpretation.
That is your secret,
and I am endlessly fascinated.
I’ve dry-cleaned the gown that I’ll wear in that surprise party you said you’d throw me one day.
And I’ve packed my suitcase just in case we finally make it to that trip you’ve promised.
I’ve brought my boots out if you ever think of going on that hike.
Our list is getting longer, but not my patience.
I’m so ready for you to be ready.
At a certain angle, our love looks smooth and perfect.
But up close, it is lines crashing upon each other,
Edges jutting out,
Sharp and dangerous.
It is not the kind that will survive scrutiny.
The trouble with me is that I trouble with you.
Who knew of the trouble the two of us could brew?
I didn’t have a clue of what trouble could ensue
when I add a bit of me and you add a bit of you
Oh the tangles I undo when its trouble I pursue.
Someday you’ll realize who pours the coffee when you yawn;
Or who always has a dry sleeve for you to cry on.
Who opens the door when you need a place to crash in;
Who cheers the loudest when you stand up to sing.
In time you will know this poem was for you;
And also this shirt, because I know you love blue.
But until them I am in this precarious state
I hold my heart by a string, awaiting its fate.
I deserve more than your kindness, but kindness will suffice.
When you do figure out where I stand, please be nice.
Make Room for Poetry 