Green
I remember your eyes, your laugh, your smile.
I remember a heart break so strong,
Not born of loss of love,
But of love
Too strong.
Love that exists to this day.
I remember tragedy.
Agony.
The knowledge of suffering, and the taunting kiss of hope.
I remember the tears.
The grasp of your mother hugging me.
Thank you for coming.
You were only 14.
I remember hands. Holding hands.
My friends gather around me, puffy faces and eyes iced over.
How tears keep coming, we didn't know.
I remember green.
Green bracelets we wore. Answering anyone who asked.
These are for Michael.
He's not here anymore.
March isnt the same anymore.
I remember a void.
Empty, unattached.
Gone.
Weight shedding off of my body,
My parents worried.
I kept shedding, letting myself slip into the abyss.
Hoping maybe I could float away to the emptiness where I felt nothing.
Where I felt safe.
Some days I wake up and I don't remember.
It's been 5 years, and some days I wake up and I
Simply
Don't remember.
Then the knowledge of what's gone. That you'll never be there to meet my boyfriend. That you'll never be there to hold my hand or give me a hug or make me laugh or wipe the tears off my face or graduate highschool or be with your family or say goodbye to your mom or sing or dance or write poetry or take one more fucking breath.
That. That washes back over me.
And once again,
I remember.
-To Michael.
YOU ARE READING
The Astronomers Eyes
PoetryA new poem book, starting off with my new original: The Astronomers Eyes. The book is a mixture of smaller and longer poems, normally derived from my love of nature, the earth, and raw emotions.
