on being sad
i couldn’t skip stones on the ocean that morning you
drove your car into the river by our old kissing spot
and i didn’t get your letter until it was too late
i have the colour of your icy eyes burned into my
brain, you are something that my cerebellum won’t
let me forget
i could never remember the rules for the form of
certain poems because i didn’t care, only scribbled
your initials on my notebook covers and picked the
pattern of our fine china
they told me you could have never gotten out from
the bottom of the river but you looked so peaceful
under the white sheet as they toted you away
there is still an outline of you under my sheets and i
was never strong enough to flip the mattress myself
so i have to lay beside your ghost every night
you still haunt the spaces between the minutes and you
have almost been gone long enough for my stomach
to have regenerated from the amount of knots you’ve
left me with
i don’t know how to end this poem so i’ll start describing
the way the flowers are blooming: they open the way that
my eyes did when i first saw you and how i forgot to breathe
every time after
(Source: likeawritingdesk)