A collection of poems

last seen

I'm not sure why I can tell you every last detail of the day you left.

But I can,

From the red sweater,

To the tear stains upon your cheeks.

You were quiet, too quiet, as we sat too far apart.

You told me you needed to leave, that you had too much going on to handle a relationship.

Translation: you couldn't handle me.

And that's fine, I expected this, but that does not mean it hurt any less, that does not mean I couldn't feel my heart fucking tear at the seams you had so carefully sewn back up.

You did not smile as I handed you your usual order of a caramel macchiato, steam rising from the cup as I extended it to you.

You did not even take a sip before you began spilling out words and tears and apologizes. I barely registered that you were leaving me before you got up from the table and rushed from the cafe; our cafe.

Your curls spilled out the doorway after you, and I can still hear your fucking heels clicking in my brain at night when I'm trying to sleep because that's the last time I saw you and I remember every single detail of that day.