you are long gone with the kind of
hope that ends as January
tosses rain out the window,
saves snow for maybe
next year
(or the year after that.)
I found your mask,
the one with the feathers,
I have hidden it again for me to
find, maybe when I'm better equipped
later tonight at four,
when thoughts crash through my window like
headlights.
(someone keeps opening my curtains.)
(I think it's my plant, I keep
forgetting to say
hello from time to time.)
my stamps? I have
hidden those too.
No letters from me,
only the electrical bill and a
late Christmas card from your
sister,
there is a picture of Santa and the hands of
God, I'm sure.
The golden light is a nice touch.
three months ago,
"thanks, you too." meant
"goodbye." and "I do not want to see you again." and
"no, I am not crying anymore, are you?"
(don't answer that.)
This poem is for me,
a reminder that my
hands are small and
you are heavy,
a reminder that spring is for
letting go.
YOU ARE READING
Moving On
Poetrya collection of poetry about moving on, relationships, self growth, and emotions. "sixteen is learning you are better than you know, you are more beautiful than you know, it is picking up the pen and writing your own definitions."
