Next call, we spent hours on the first.
Next date, I’ll try not to stare for too long.
Next trip, my arms might be linked to yours.
Next kiss, I hear our new favorite song.
Next day, and I’m waking up beside you
Every next is what I’m most looking forward to.
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.
There is no shame in admitting
That I’m willing to settle
for lukewarm feelings and tepid thoughts
Because calamity comes too easily
For a woman who is passionate,
And I fear that a single gesture from you
Can leave me undone.
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.
We are a tumble of breaths,
Each not knowing where one starts and one ends.
with your every inhale, my ribs are pulled in,
And in my every exhale it is your breath I smell on me,
We are so close, we share the same air.
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.
Maybe we’ll share coffee again someday
in our favorite cafe.
And maybe we’ll hold hands, we’ll see.
Just the thought of it makes me giddy.
Maybe I’ll stare into your actual eyes
and not the screen.
Someday I’ll wake up
and know you’re not a dream.
It might soon, but maybes lie
But I still hope, don’t ask me why
Or when or how
But when this is through,
I will see you.
You didn’t read how our story ends
Even though it was your hand that wrote it.
Maybe you pictured yourself a hero
and I didn’t need saving.
Maybe you saw yourself kind
and I didn’t need kindness either.
But someday, when you figure out
how to love in earnest,
You’ll open up our book and read til the very end
And know that I never said it was all your fault.
Make Room for Poetry 