Do you remember when your smile used to be effortless?
I do.
I don’t remember everything, but I do remember when we changed.
She once sent me a quote about writers and their horrible memories. Why they can’t remember anniversaries and some other important details. Why?
Because we capture the little details that everyone passes up. The way her lips curve past your heart and sneaks into your eyes. The color of her favorite dress, or the way his eyes had a certain shine when you conversed about his passions.
Writers, such tricky little beings.
Change. Writers change too.
We’re as human as you, you and you.
It’s this little detail that always gets me.
I put so much effort into writing about my feelings that I forgot about hers.
They say poetry requires an honest heart,
but somewhere down the line that line was blurry and I’m sure she felt the same way.
Because even writers can hurt people.
I counted every season we spent together,
but now, I count the seasons we don’t.
It’s not a validation of our time spent apart,
it’s more for my own sanity,
it’s more for my own guilt,
& I can live with this one.
I must be out of my mind because
you run through every poem
like I’m some sort of gym
and this is a work out plan.
I can’t. I’m tired. I’m exhausted.
I’m still painting the fine line about us,
but I shouldn’t, right?
Writers, such deceptive little beings.
We can make fool’s gold feel real.
We can make heartache feel enjoyable.
We can make love feel like it’s still happening.
That’s the saddest thing I have ever written.
Love, it’s over.
Some people look better from afar,
some people look perfect inside of a photo,
some lips still look kissable even with history.
And I hate it, I should, right?
Self-torment–
Every writer who has ever been in love,
they’ll get those words.
You change yourself into a pool of words
made from a star called agony and
you’ll read it to yourself every night,
the stars may shine, but you’d
write about the night.
Yeah, I get that too.
Do I remember when I used to smile?
Sure, who doesn’t?
I used to smile when you called and ask about my day. I used to smile in hopes that you thought about me. If I died, I wonder if you’d miss me. Probably, probably not. It’s okay.
Change.
When I saw myself as someone who knew what love was, I didn’t know a damn thing.
Change.
When you thought you knew better, so you stay inside of a toxic relationship to ooze your way into a light hearted person, even the happiest people break others.
That’s not hate,
That’s life.
People fall in love as leaves
and think they know it all,
they think that love
can be seasons,
that one spring
it’ll be better,
there will be flowers,
there will be life,
& it won’t be so bad.
You used to be a writer,
so you’ll understand that line.
I can only hope that the time we’ve spent being lovers meant more, but this is just another attempt at apologizing about us.
Because we did happen,
but not how we should have.
Maybe it’s better this way,
maybe it’s good that no one stayed,
maybe there’s good from this poetry.
Maybe, that’s change.
Accepting this little revolving door.
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