Summer, your lips,
The curve of a smile that makes me shiver,
So I haven’t needed the cold in months.
Summer, your hips,
The indents of fingertips and promises.
Promises hidden and stolen and torn.
There are things in the wind,
Dancing outside my window, my dear,
Did you do that?
Is that what you call beautiful?
Is that what you mean when you call me
Summer, your wrists,
Black and blue and soft, soft pink,
And all I’m thinking of is bones and winter.
Take it back, goddamn, take it all back.
Summer, your smell,
The sound and taste of it pressed into my pillowcase.
Am I tired? Maybe I am.
I don’t know what this is called. They didn’t teach it to me in school. My hands hurt, is it supposed to be like this? Craned necks, slouched backs, darkened circles: hairline cracks. I wake up at 7AM every morning for this. He asked me what I meant when I said that it was all over, and I told him I don’t know what it’s called. Over, over, my God, is it really just beginning?
This is the end of an era. This is the start of a new chapter. I don’t know what it’s called but so much is over and I am so, so hungry. I walk through the hallways hoping to find the words that I made when everything was new, three and a half years ago. I think I could use them now. But all I see is the end of an era, the start of a new chapter, and I am famished, holy fuck, it wasn’t supposed to be like this at all, was it?
They keep telling me to keep in touch and call and text and well, we can always come back home on the weekends, right? They don’t know what it’s called, either. I know that everyone does it but I don’t think I’m doing it well enough. No, these were not the best years of my life but they feel right even when they’re wrong. Maybe it’s too late for nostalgia; I don’t care. Goddammit I miss it all.
I keep saying this is the end of an era, but I think I mean lifetime. Say chapter, say commencement, say new beginnings, say leaving the nest. Say whatever you like; euphemisms won’t feed this aching fear. Say graduation. That’s what it’s called anyway, isn’t it?
This is not a poem. This is not an alibi, and this is not something for you to hang over my head. This is how I feel. These are my words spread out on a surface where you can’t always take back what you didn’t mean to say when tensions were high.
I wish you would understand that love doesn’t just disappear. It slowly fades away as the sound of giving up makes its way through the hallways of attempted forgiveness. You shouldn’t always assume that you are the center of my meaning. You only hear what you want so you are able to think that there is something that proves your point when it comes to having a reason for you to just walk away.
I should probably just tell you how I feel instead of watching you circle around the answer; oblivious to harshness of your actions. You should know me by now, and you should know that I am only as strong as my heart is. And to tell you the truth, it’s a part of me that hasn’t been holding its own weight lately. I hide things from you because I am afraid that one day you are going to use my fears as leverage.
To tell you the truth, you were the only person who has ever been able to make me question my purpose, and sometimes, even if you don’t want to admit it, you use that in your advantage; turning my desires into dreams, and showing me that the future is as far away from me as my past.
But when I held you in my arms for those short moments before you had to leave my bed and return to the one that you made for yourself, I couldn’t help but to feel as if there was more than just comfort that you were seeking. But the feeling of absolute safety; a safety that wouldn’t be found in someone as vulnerable as myself.