I'll be busy every single day,
Till the eighteenth.
Two jobs is rough on the body and mind, but
It's even rougher on the free time.
It's made me realize something, I think.
I miss you when things get quiet.
I miss you when I don't have the energy to truly distract myself,
When I can't have my lover in my arms and I don't have the will to do anything but breathe, read, and listen to music.
I miss you when I read about love,
And when I hear about the stars.
Does it say something about me? Oh, definitely -
It probably reads as such,
"I distract myself to stop from thinking of you,
And my lover is one of those distractions."
Is that true? I'm not sure, really,
But I hope not.
It hurts too much to question if I really know what love feels like, let alone if love is really what I feel.
It's stupid to me, that we're taught to find love in butterflies and nervous ticks,
In warmed cheeks and fluttering hearts,
Because what is love but to give yourself away? What is love but to twine with another, like threads becoming stronger because they are one?
What is love but to feel yourself fraying at the seams, and questioning if you're crazy?
But I steel myself and look for apartments alone because he won't like any of them anyway,
Places my cat can be at home before he kicks him out of the bed each night,
Places we can cook and clean and be on our own without others making things hard.
"Others" is "anyone", and in that isolation I wonder what I'll find.
Making three times what I'm used to in a day of work is a plus, though.
YOU ARE READING
Air Conditioning
PoesíaVent 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...
