I fucking need to stop reading my old notebooks.
She sat next to me.
Our arms grazed,
and I swore she could feel
the chill that hit my skin.
I once read somewhere
that each time you recall a moment from your past
it’s never remembered exactly the same way
as it was before.
We assume that during moments of
we go through an organized filing system
and pull out
and put back
these memories whenever we wish.
But it doesn’t work that way.
and haunting of her voice,
The memory is imperfect.
That’s why I write about her.
It’s like I’m falling from a tree,
and I’m trying to grab onto any branch
in order to keep myself from going blind from the impact of
never seeing her again.
My bones are cracking.
I feel it.
Hairline vines of
But they’re early.
The leaves haven’t fallen.
And the winds are still.
Two years of seasons
brought me names that won’t leave my tongue.
I think I’m snowbound for cold this time around.
I’ll consider this ache
I think you’re still lost,
and I always thought I’d be
the one to save you.
I still feel as if
a fraction of myself will always be
dedicated to carrying you out of your
I think I’m chasing sadness.
I spent so much time away from it
that I lost all of my inspiration.
I barely wrote anything.
I can’t even remember
the last time I touched those
cold strings on my guitar.
I’m not even sure if my voice is still in key
like it was during those dark days of
For the last year
I’ve been pulling myself out of this hole I dug
that I never even wanted to leave in the first place.
I feel so fucked up,
wanting to have back what destroyed me in the first place.
I need these pages filled.
I need my vocal cords raw from screaming out your name.
I need my heart beating out of my chest
like it did when it lost you.
I can’t stand the feeling
of burying you
under another woman’s body.
“Pick that shit up.”
pointing at the pile of
that never made it to you
or my trash bin.
You broke the parts of me that I liked the most.
I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for that.
I can’t seem to write like I used to.
It used to be such
The words would pour out
and only form your name.
I was always content with putting you permanently on paper.
But you’ve been missing for quite some time now.
And every day it feels like you fade
At first, you might assume this is a good thing.
I’m even worse when I can’t feel enough to put ink on these pages.
Your name has been contained inside my lips
and no one hears me whisper it anymore.
Show me a rough time, love,
and I’ll write a book
about how you were the only one to touch me
and stain me forever.