There's a stop-motion video of a moment long passed.
It was a picture perfect scene.
Then again, it was constructed of pictures.
It was pouring, in a sense.
A angry torrent of rain kept coming.
And you looked at the thunder, afraid, hoping the storm would just pass by.
That no damage would be done.
But popcorn ceilings fell piece by piece until we were left unsheltered.
And slowly as the rain hit your waxy skin, you melted.
It's hard to paint a face that's left the picture.
Messages sent are left unreceived.
You can hear about someone crumbling only for so long before your emotions are pulled into the torment.
I try to draw your face.
But I am unsuccessful.
The pictures of us together depict happier times before we both melted into different suburban lives.
We both write puzzles of letters, but I still can't get my message across.
I can't make myself say it, if you still even want to listen.
And can I make things better? I honestly can't say that.
All I can say now is that I miss you. That's the easiest thing to say.
I guess it's because it's the most true.
YOU ARE READING
Nobody Was Meant to See
Poetry[Trigger Warning, please be safe when reading] They aren't supposed to know. They aren't meant to read these poems that I'm writing. I've concealed them for a reason. -Shitty poems about how I feel-
