Poems

The Love He Wants

He tries to tell me he's fine with her through his actions, not through his words,
because we don't talk anymore.
So I read him like a book laid open from afar: something impossibly hard.

He ties to tell me that she is his love.
And I want to point out the holes in his plan, writhe in my skin, and write a paper to prove to him what everyone else can see: that she is not.
I want to scream: "It's me. I'm the one you're supposed to be with."
But I bite my lip raw and rough to keep myself from saying what I want to speak,
I close my eyes to the softness of darkness to keep the tears from flooding over me.
I can't look him in the eyes, if he's looking in my direction but seeing right through me;
I can't look him in the eyes, especially when, he's not looking at me.

I've grown tired of watching him watch her as she watches someone else.
I want to ask him: "Is this the love you want?"
I've witnessed her sobbing in the halls over him because they had a disagreement. Because their language is dead silence or deafening arguments.
"Is this the love you want?"
I've recollected the image of him in distress-typically gentle face in careful hands, now with eyes pinched in pain, back hunched in sorrow- when she couldn't look at him anymore. Because all they do is put each other through agony.
"Is this the love you want?"
I've observed the way it's easy for him to leave with out telling her goodbye; without even stealing a glance her way. As if it isn't impossible to walk away from your everything.
"Is this the love you want?"
I know the way they avoid each other, some days, and try to fill the void created when the other one leaves them like glasses of water: one half full; one half empty.
"Is this the love you want?"
I replay the ways he's always reaching for her but she never makes recuperating actions.
"Is this the love you want?"

I still know the day I first met him. The day I saw the real him. There was something magical in the way he laughed and charming in the way he was so carefree. On that August night, one year ago, my life took a sharp right turn at the same time we spun right in a little grey car- as if the world inside my head had finally lined up with the universe's big plan. I couldn't not want to be his world since the day he had became mine. I'd do almost anything for the smile.
"Is this not the love you want?"
My best soul in my best exterior. Adoring heart in a navy dress. All for him to not take a look. I'd be my best me for him.
"Is this not the love you want?"
I've remembered every little thing he's ever told me, because if it was important enough for him to tell me it must matter. I know his struggles, his faults, his imperfections and I'm still dying to love him.
"Is this not the love you want?"

And it's taken me some time to think about it: that maybe it's not the type of love he didn't want; it was just that he didn't want that love with me.