this is life without you:
I have lost a week, but every hour is endless.
Today, I wrote a love letter to a man who gave me purpose
but he will never know me better than in the line
which ended: "I want to share the peace you gifted me."
yes, I am allowing myself to hide in coffee shops once more.
Breath heavy and aching eyes I am tired -
tired and weightless, waiting as seconds steep slowly,
learning to live with the words which I have spoken
words which at long last
have chased you away.
you were warned,
you. were. warned.
ink-stained and cradling chai,
reading spice-leaves and honey which only manage to say
I am a mess. I am a mess, lost and lonely,
savouring the moment stolen where I feel at home:
the moment before the storm,
before moon captures sun,
before extermination, before I am held accountable.
yes, I am spinning one last yarn,
finding myself the cut which fits my raw new skin,
the style to suit this fearful new world,
where I am dodging eye contact with
the therapist I still cancel last minute on,
but she does not see me behind newspaper headlines:
invisible I am invincible,
measuring the twin accusations of
supposed vulnerability or invulnerablity
as if somehow, miraculously, I am both, reincarnate
as if I chose this for myself!
yes, no doubt I am bitter, watching the destruction of value,
more easily traded than a barista's cigarettes,
double shot one sugar cappuccino for Old Man Regular,
the only bastard to ask if I mind sharing my head-space.
I sigh. Not any more.
There is nothing left to reconsider.
i wrote this twice. i had to because i still haven't got my laptop back and i accidentally shut the first window which was raw and unsaved. i guess at least now i had to think about it. still. i miss my laptop. writing is so much harder right now.
I like the last half of this in particular. In fact, if the part after the 'you. were. warned.' was its own poem, I would probably like it more. o: The love-related pain in the first section is too despondent for me, personally. All the same, good work. You write the best poems. c:
Which makes reading your writing that much more special