You said you would be back.
You said you were going to only
be gone a short time this time,
but you were gone, gone, gone.
How do I know if you love me?
How do I know that you aren't
going around behind my back,
planning to leave me all alone?
How do I know that you aren't
going to do any of that?
I don't.
I will never really ever know
what you might do, where you
are, what you might say, what
choices you'll make and how
that will change the course of
events as we both know it. I
can't control that. I don't care
if I'm repetitive. I'll keep saying
it until it sticks. I can't control
that. I can't control that. I can't
control that. All the things I've
done thus far have been a
form of wanting to feel in control
while watching you wildly spin out
of my reach.
YOU ARE READING
THE ARSONIST
Poetry"You set my world on fire, but at what cost?" In THE ARSONIST, this prose-poetry chapbook explores third degree burns, stone faced lovers, and learning to love the blackened trees. New poems released every Thursday at 9PM MST/11PM EST.
