I think of you in the car,
And I sing a little louder.
The thought that you're not far,
It has some sort of power.
It bewitches me,
Makes me roll down my windows,
Sing like it'll set me free,
If that's true, then find one that knows.
For im still in this skin,
Spending Thanksgiving with kin.
I'm still questioning things,
With my heart that still rings.
I'm still feeling hurt smart me,
Thinking about what I couldn't see.
It's clever and wise,
To use those words as goodbyes,
But here I am anyways,
Typing while music plays.
I was ready to say goodbye to minds plagued by sunny days,
Trapped in warmth that could twist and blister,
Though I was ready to say goodbye in each way,
You responded with a cry to a whisper.
Every time I think there's finally shade,
The sun comes back,
Every time I try to lie in the bed I'd made,
The color of the sheets burns black.
Your memory swelters.
This was a draft written and abandoned the night of November 30th.
I decided instead of finishing this, to let your words be the truth. To let it be a goodbye even though it wasn't meant to be: that's why you can't find it, there wasn't one there in the first place.
How am I supposed to tell you how little my life has changed?
How am I supposed to cope with or make you cope with the sheer lack of difference your absence has made in my life?
The thought of how little has changed is nigh unbearable.
Yes, I passed my test and completed my course with a 72 on the final, crushed my ego and trust me I'll study for the NREMT which I take January 7th,
And YES, I am so frustrated that I'm not THERE yet. I'm not saving lives yet.
I miss you, I really do. I think about you a lot, and I wonder how much happier you are without me in your life, and I check all the time for updates on it.
The main reason I don't write is because the only things happening don't affect my state of mind.
My writing is supposed to have emotional, lyrical meaning. It's not something for me to list every slight new occurrence in my life, as much as I wish it were that easy.
I have nothing important to write about.
There is something I do want you to know though.
When I move, it may be to Austin or Fort Worth.
I don't know which one yet.
Here's what you demanded.
-B
YOU ARE READING
Air Conditioning
PoetryVent poetry It's frowned upon putting your heart on your sleeve with such a weak code like a three number pin. For both of our sakes I hope you aren't the type to spend your time digging your claws in and working to decode someone else's words an...
