Grief Written

One year ago we were in my bed in Tucson, It was a Saturday, and I turned to you and whispered, "should I make pancakes?" And really what I should've said was "Good morning, I love you." But there was something about making pancakes in the morning for someone that you loved that made me think of when I was six years old mixing batter with eggs and milk in a mismatched bowl early in the morning hoping that maybe my mother would leave her bed that morning. You wrapped your arms around my stomach and I could feel your breath tickle my ear when you whispered, "Happy Anniversary, we've been together a year." and something about that made my stomach hurt in a way that I no longer thought about the smell of pancakes.  After a long pause I whispered back, "I love you," but what I really meant was 'please don't leave me.' And I would ask that the next day as I sat on my bed watching you pack your suitcase, pulling clothes from the pile

I’m crying and my breath is rattling in my chest like loose change And I’m reading poetry And I’m wondering how this all happened How I got here How everything is the same but everything is so different  I want my mom but we don’t speak anymore  And my dad is asleep  And everyone else who I used to dial, their phone goes straight to voicemail  There are no lucky pennies  There is no poetry  Just a girl with green eyes like a plant that’s been watered too much  And a smile like crescent moon that wavers with passing days  I’d like to be swallowed up by the ocean