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.
The hardest memories to manage are the good times we’ve had.
Because when times were good, they were the best.
with colors you could swim in;
with the taste of food and wine and your kisses lingering on my lips for days;
with our shared laughter echoing in my ears.
But soon, I am running on empty again, grasping at even the slightest bit of kindness;
willing myself to understand that you are just misunderstood;
blaming your past, blaming my past
to justify why we’re still together.
Soon, there won’t be enough good times to remember, and then, what will happen to us then?
*I wrote this while I was reading Colleen Hoover’s “It Ends With Us.” =)
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.
You’re the almost to my maybe
The missed boat to my open sea
The one risk I haven’t had the chance to take
The best decision I have yet to make.
Timing can ruin even the best songs
One misstep can lead to all sorts of wrongs
But what’s a song if it’s not sung?
And what is us if we haven’t even begun?
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 know we’re in the middle of a world’s that’s gone and flipped itself over,
and I can’t make heads or tails of things beyond me.
So I’m sticking to this simple dream–
I just want someone to kiss hello,
and to blow kisses goodbye.
Make Room for Poetry 