last year we were sitting in my car in silence,
like every relationship when it's at it's pending end.
in the end we moved around in a haze, tired a desperately waiting for the suffering to end
but then your hand grazed my wrist
your skin as soft as I remembered
your fingers slid between mine, and I could see the end
everything we worked for seeming slipping away
"I'll call you tomorrow" then you climbed out of my car and walked towards the steps
lit up by the porch light, you closed the door behind you
didn't even look back, not even a turn of your head
I sat in the car looking down at my phone,
11:59, "she said she'd call me tomorrow"
I turned the key and started the engine, I drove towards the neon signs in the distance
open 24 hours, beneath the glowing sign I sat in the parking lot listening to Lany's ILYSB
I turned the key and the car fell silent, the only sounds
the buzzing of the neon sign, and my heart pounding in my ears
the gas station door swung open, I smell your cologne on my jacket
gas station flowers caught my eye,
they look as strained and tired as I did
I grabbed them, paid and walked out to my car
turned the key, drove out of the lot, next thing I knew
I was outside your house, wanting you to let me in flowers in hand
I stood under the buzzing porch light, too nervous to knock
I stuck the flowers in the mailbox with a note,
"they need some love, and so do I"
YOU ARE READING
gas station flowers
Poetrycoming of age poetry by a queer young adult writer. navigating relationships and the coming out process. peak inside the mind of a young woman with a mental illness.
