6.8.17 J.R
I should have never allowed you to invade the personal places in my life.
I wasted too many stiletto sunsets, half burnt out cigarettes, twenty dollar bills, whole hearted laughter, and moonlight trails on something only a temporary fix to a permanent idea.
How dare you tell me, that I am not what you'd hoped for; when you'd wanted deeper depths of me. I'm not made of pretty poetic rose petals, or calm orange waters retracting the sunsets in late July's fares. I'm not some artistic object owe-ing you some kind of feeling. Explanation kills art, you know.
Blue limelights on your wooden porch, lightning bugs, and mosquitos littering the headlights on your street. The paint is rotting away from all the smoke. Ten minutes to two a.m, and we are standing still. You live on the edge of town, descending into railroads and forested lakes. You're leaning back on the rail, and you gaze pierces through the late night- early morning shroud. Our voices are soft, and almost breathless, and you're looking right at me.
This is not supposed to mean anything. There is nothing significant about this.
I just wanted to feel as if I was truly living and breathing on my own. I convinced myself the mediocre interval between us was mutual. I talked myself out of your reach, out of my heartaches. I turned away, and said goodnight before you were ready for bed. You watched me get into my car like you always do, and you'd wait for me to start my car, and I'd look back to see you staring, and you'd wave. You wouldn't dare break your gaze, even as my car disappears into the traffic lights, and nights ahead of us.
YOU ARE READING
The Other Person Project
Poetrythe answer is yes. it will always be yes. you will always be the words. [(format) This originally started as a secret project I took on senior year, in high school. I wanted to write a poem about every single person in my class, eventually it becam...
