Sometimes I want to call you to tell you about the things in me that hurt so much I feel like my skin might melt away from my muscle and bone. Sometimes I want to call to tell you about the good things I experience, like seeing ladybugs in my garden or the way the air smelled just after it rained in the capitol, like it had washed away everything that stained this nation and finally, for just a moment, I, too, was pure again. I know you’d understand. You always understood once you were finally in a place to understand. When I talk about heartbreak, I always bring you up last. You know I love to end a story with a bang. You were a gunshot, and sometimes, I still hear a ringing in my ears. I’m happy, in some aspects at least. My love is as full as my love can be. I work enough that I don’t often have the time to dwell on the empty parts of me, but when I do, there’s always space left for you. Space to call you, though I won’t. Space to write you, though I rarely do. Space to remember you, and I think I always will. You were, for so long, the brightest and darkest parts of me. You lit me up, set me ablaze, burned me so badly my entire body is scarred. Your happiness and my happiness coinciding yet again, though this time, with our someone elses is the most poetic thing I’ve ever seen with my own eyes. Above Plath and Hemingway and all the modern poets I idolize and admire, there is you and I, both loving someone else, and both watching one another from afar, fulfilled and overjoyed by the fact that our love finally grew strong enough to reach two other people aside from ourselves. For all that she does for you, I’m grateful. For all that she’s healed in you, the wounds I created, I’m thankful. I’m certain the feeling is mutual.
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prguitarman
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
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