i visited the city you grew up in. it made me homesick for a place i never even lived. my heart began its slow pull toward your front door; my body stretched in two directions, thin and fragile, later found mangled and unrecognizable.
can i call it wanderlust if i'm only searching for you?
no, i guess not. you would call it yearning.
i went to the restaurant down the street. we'd been there once. i don't remember much, just that you were there. that was enough. this time, the person sitting across from me wasn't you.
the food was forgettable —
i didn't trust the world with you. it didn't matter what happened to me, but if you died, i would never forgive myself. i couldn't let anyone steal your future. and there you are, still in one piece —
maybe not because of me, but i like to think so.
even now, i still don't trust the world to protect you.
you told me, "in another life, we grew old together."
those words will haunt me for the rest of my life. is there anyone who has carried the weight of that burden for so long? yes, your parting words were meant to be innocuous, but it doesn't matter. there was nothing i could do but drown it out —
if, instead, you said: "it wasn't meant to be," i would've believed you.
here i am, close enough to reach you, but too far to even try —
i keep clinging to my identity as a poet. it's the last thread that still ties me to you. the moment i met you, you were in everything i wrote. i knew my words would become yours. they belonged to you; they might always.
you were the girl that made sense of everything i've ever written.
how am i supposed to find someone else like that?
izzy806
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