I always walk into
your home if I know
that the door is left unlocked,
which it usually is.
Sometimes I fear that
one day I'll walk in
and you'll have a girl with you
doing the same things that we
used to do together.
If I could muster up
the bravery,
I'd probably punch her
in the face for stealing you
from me even though
you are no longer mine.
When I walk into your home
I see you usually laying down
on the carpet or on
the ten-millionth couch
that your mother has
brought in since we've
been together.
You always look up
at me as if it were
a surprise,
but I guess it was since
I didn't bother to knock
or tell you when I got there.
When my eyes meet yours
for the first time
of the day I always seem
to lose the words that I
was going to say as if
they ran away
the moment those brown irises
met mine
in a silent room
filled with old memories.
They must have slithered
in between my teeth
and snuck out the door
before I had the chance to
close it,
or maybe they ran upstairs
and jumped out the window
that I like to look out at
when it's the 4th of July.
I have to be quick on my feet
and act like I had just
finished running to your house
from mine
because you're leaving me breathless
without having to make a sound
or touch me with those fingertips
that have written love notes
along my tanned skin,
winding along my sides
and playfully pinching the fat
that I have on my belly.
Who knew that you were
a poet too?
YOU ARE READING
I Was She
Poetry[Complete] A series of poems and short stories tell the sad tale of a breakup, of rejection, and of finding new love. From losing her soulmate to learning to see the world from a different perspective, M.A. Rivers writes down every last feeling that...
