Posts tagged love
Posts tagged love
I keep memories of you light against my lips. During the span of our love I learned about time. I knew to elongate seconds, to memorize the softness of your face and the sound of your smile. I never learned how to forget. Time continues to be counted.
Once you looked up at me from the floor where you sat stuffing your suitcase and with liquid eyes you said, “You are so good to me.” I bent to kiss you, completely full of love and safety and searing guilt for every pain I bore into you. I never learned how to forget. Did you?
We are both gone now, huddled back in our past lives and pretending we are strangers. Or have we moved beyond pretending? We must have. Who are you now? Have you changed much? You haven’t written to me in so long. I think the fight is over. I wonder how things would be now if I had never hurt you at all. Would my door sound different? All it says is silence.
I walk to the bus stop earlier now. It arrives on time. I don’t forget.
i looked tonight at the list of names we might have given to our children.
this is not a poem.
this is an invitation.
please come home.
I know it seems that there are too many armfuls of space between us to fit you close enough to me, but hear this, Love: they did not build enough green earth to keep me far.
They just did not build big enough. You don’t know this, but when I’m standing on my street, looking southwards, I am following dancing lines of tire-black stone that pour on for miles and miles and still all meet each other halfway and I am at your door.
Don’t go yet, you’ve left too much behind. You left the scent of your skin on the sheets, the phantom feeling of your fingertips on my hand. Twice already I’ve turned to speak to you without you being there. My eyes are searching for you around corners and behind doors and even though I know you won’t be there, I hope you will be. You’ve gone from my home for a little while, taking my heart with you and I long to hold you again for a little while longer, kiss you just ten more times, only twenty more times, whisper things, “I love you,” and, “please don’t go.”
Perhaps the saddest thing is that all of the things that stir inside me are unable to be transferred to you. For example, this song I’m listening to is not just a song, because inside the guitar and the timbre of her voice are whole memories, entire geographies and ages that don’t exist anywhere but within me. I could take you to these places and point and tell you that it was here that this happened, and this is where I felt this way, but the air was stranger then, the trees held different leaves. I was different. The buildings are unchanged, except maybe worn down in places unnoticed. The trees are growing older and taller. The squirrels run. And this is a whole world, it’s one of mine, and even if I try to share it with you, there will always be the gap between us, the place where we breathe in and out, and the parts of me that I want to share will only blow away on their way from me to you. I want to find a way to explain to you or make you feel the things that I feel at times, when I am aware of my heart inside my chest, so fine, an unmissable and precise thread from the core of me to all of my fingers. I want you to know the parts of me that make me quiet and want to be alone, that make me love autumn when the weather turns cold. It is a place I am lonely inside. I can play you a song and search your eyes and wait but it’s not for you to understand, just as I could never understand the inner universe of you. But we try, and I suppose that is more than enough.
I lay chest down
And beat my heart into the blankets
Until everything shakes
With life and love
And other things the heart makes.
The mattress pulses
Waiting for an echo that doesn’t come
And this is how it is without you.
It is the second day in April and I can smell the first fire. I traced the sky for a line of smoke but the blue was clear and cloudless, so light around the rim. The first butterfly winged clumsily, learning to use its smoldering wings. There is a turn, the end of a great yawn, and the day is warm and I want to touch the earth and press my words into the grass. It might make its way to you in new shoots. I love you more than ever.
I text you every morning and say I love you,
but I’m sometimes sleepy and would always rather have you beside me.
But you aren’t, and so, with my eyes half-open, I text,
"I love you."
Sometimes I get it wrong
in my half-sleep stupor
and I type instead,
"I live you."
Odd, awkward grammar,
but at the heart of it, still true.
in separate beds
whisper and name your streets
say them aloud and bring me home