Perfect Stranger

You’ve become my perfect little stranger.
Tiptoeing across the past, so as not to wake it.
Throwing it in the back of your mind, so as not to think it.
You’ve become my perfect little stranger.
Growing every millisecond, reaching further into the abyss my mind once held of you.
The freckles I no longer can count, the scent of your cologne I can no longer smell.
You’ve become my perfect little stranger,
For what once was something beautiful, has turned into nothing but a passing thought on its way back to the past, where you live on the cross, and die there too.

Unpacking

I’ve unpacked your burden, my suitcase is empty.
I’ve folded you up nicely, and laid you into my drawers.
You once had a hold on me, a fist against my throat. But I’ve found peace in your death and I’ve finally grown.
An endeavor of years, yet minutes for you, has quietly ended, and willfully too.
I’ve laid you to rest in the grave that you dug, and threw in my roses as one final hug.
Our time on earth is over, our illicit eternity.
I wrote of you like poetry, lines of a helpless romantic fallen into tragedy.
I will no longer write, of the boy that I knew, for your existence has ended, and so has this too.

The Olive Branch

I will not be the first to extend my hand, for it’s held onto yours again and again.
They say you’re reborn, learning the ropes, a battlefield of a new hope.
They say you’re at peace, but at what cost does it bring?
I will not be the first to extend my hand, for it gave you a push and I watched as you ran.
I no longer need your seal of approval, I just need to ask “why did you do it?”
A question that will forever go unanswered, for you won’t be the first to extend your hand either.

Narratives

Your narrative of me is false
For you call me crazy, yet you feel the loss.
You tell all your friends I lost my mind, but forget to tell them how you wanted to rescue me from it all.
Tell them I’m obsessive and attached, without mentioning you were there first.
Does thinking of me in poor light make missing me easier?
I know it does for me.
My narrative of you is false
For I call you crazy, yet I feel the loss.

Untitled

I still see your face in every crowd.
In the passerby at night when I walk home;
And I hold my breath until I realize it isn’t you.
Every now and then I see you in my dreams.
Sometimes you’re just another fleeting thought,
and others you’re a whole film my mind cast you in as the main character.
I still see you and it hurts, but the pain lessens each and every time.
Though I started seeing someone new, and I find myself wanting to start writing about him the more time I spend in his arms instead of yours.
His touch is gentle, and his eyes don’t lie to me like yours did.
He’s given me hope in an honest love,
And he’s given me the ability to feel happiness again.
His patience with me has been overwhelming, and every kiss feels like healing.
I know now, I never loved you.
Because the love I feel for him could never compare.

February

Our souls intertwined so effortlessly that night in the crisp air of the city.
We spent our time enlisting nostalgia and laughing away our past.
I remember the magic in your touch, 
and the sparkle your eyes reflected in the moonlight. 
That night you told me you loved me, 
as we lied awake engulfed in each other’s arms. 
I could feel the static in the air around us. 
I could feel my heart beat faster than the speed of light,
As the words wrapped around my neck where your hand should’ve been.
That night we shared our first kiss.
That night you touched me for the first time,
Leaving me trembling for more.
I seem to find myself living in February as the leaves change colors in October.