I remember her;
I remember her quite well.
Oranges, cheap horror movies, indie music that isn't really that indie, hikes, going out for breakfast at two a.m., sleeping in until one p.m., tissues, petting golden retrievers, petting any dog, laying in bed for entire weekends, writing tragedies, writing about us, writing about anything, dandelions, the smells of autumn, cardboard boxes, Halloween, small towns, psychology, laying in the middle of a field at night until the sprinklers come on, dancing in said sprinklers, figuring out that one math problem, math, people watching, people smiling, people smiling so much tears fall, t.v. show binge watching, any kind of food if we're being honest, staring contests, going to cliché cafes ironically of course, being ironic, not being ironic, the word ironic, discovering new words, thunderstorms and pillows.
The two of us --
we hadn't spoken in some time.
I'm sure that's my fault.
I'm sure of that.
I'm also sure that I loved her,
I loved her more than
an addict loves denial --
I need(ed) her.
But I didn't want to need her.
For whatever reason,
I'm not sure of that.
Does that make me a bad person?
Or does it make me just delusional?
I'm hoping for the former.
All I've got left is my sanity --
I think.
I couldn't function without her in my veins,
in my blood, in my eyes, in my ears, in my nose,
in my mouth, in my hands, in my skin, in my bones,
in my central nervous system, in my respiratory system,
in my system, to be brief.
But not in my heart.
For I don't think I ever gave her my heart.
If that would've been the antidote
for her to inhale once, twice, three times more,
I'm not sure even then I could've
given it to her.
For whatever reason,
I'm not sure of that.
Does that make me a bad person?
Or does it make me just delusional?
I tried to lurk on the border of
sweet nothings and sweet everythings.
Everything was sweet, at one time.
And then everything didn't turn sour;
it all rotted.
Like everything has to, eventually,
I suppose.
I long for her.
I've longed for her since I was pulled into the light,
and I'll long for her until I'm
glimpsing my last rays of light.
On October tenth,
on the icy Friday that it was --
the same Friday that'll never
be simply, comfortably,
October tenth again,
she died.
She lost any motivation to breathe.
She forgot how to breathe, actually.
On October tenth,
I died.
On October tenth,
I was breathing.
On October tenth,
I wrote a eulogy.
On October tenth,
I wrote a eulogy,
I wrote a eulogy,
for my own
happiness.
My dear, my beloved,
my everything whom I knew
nothing about.
My happiness was buried
in the ever-so gradually freezing dirt,
never to be seen again.
Everything rots,
I suppose.
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شِعرA collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan...
