poets only write about love and love lost,
but what about the time afterward?
what about the times when i see you my heart breaks,
not because i miss you,
but i miss the feeling of you.
the feeling of you on my neck,
the feeling of you in my arms,
the feeling of you on the other end of the line.
you weren’t a classic romeo.
you were one with trails of cigarette smoke and a bright red motorcycle,
instead of shiny, chain-link armor and a glistening white horse.
your eyes hold the past.
the past hour-long laughing fits,
the past midnight ice cream runs,
the past nights we slept under the stars.
i wish i could kiss you one more time,
not because i like you,
but because i liked the void you filled.
what about when i see her for the first time, this new me.
she’s beautiful, blonde, bubbly.
everything that i wasn’t, she is.
she’s willing to go all in. i guess i wasn’t.
i guess i couldn’t stand up when you walked away.
i guess i couldn’t hold you the right way,
because now i’m holding empty space.
my bed is empty to my left because i can’t bear to roll over in case you’ll come back.
because sometimes i open old, dusty copy of shakespeare’s sonnets,
and imagine you in every one.
i wish he wrote about how to pick up the pieces when you’re broken,
because i keep cutting myself on broken glass.