Grief Written

We were loosely holding hands around the fire pit when you told me, “If you were a bird you’d be a flamingo” To which I took great offense, insisting I would be a bird of prey - powerful & graceful.  You simply laughed, put out your cigarette in the way that you do and stood to go inside. When it came to loving you,  I was a raven. Collecting tokens of affection to lay at your threshold. Small items or objects that encompass my love for you, The thought of you as I wandered through neighborhoods and cities and forestry. A scavenger. Waiting, watching from branches swooped low. Fluttering with anticipation as your fingers would sweep across the treasures. And it is likely we were lost in translation,  I could only blink blankly When you told me I didn’t listen to you Resist the urge to shift foot from foot, Point to each item and tell you: “This is every note between the two of us, every penny I pocketed, ticket stubs, Polaroids, wine corks, flower petals.” “White nail...

I’m drunk off the wine I took from your house so you wouldn’t drink too much when I left  And I held the bottle in the Uber on my way home which was silent  I thought about that time in college I Ubered home crying and drunk knowing that he had said things I couldn’t forgive  But even then in that moment, I wondered what he would say about me now He was never fiercely protective But I thought about the way you grabbed my wrist and the way my nail broke and how I was the one apologizing  It made me feel like a child again in all the ways and I know you know what I mean Because I can still see your regret leaning against the kitchen sink  I can see perhaps a thought of your mother In the same way I had one of mine  And I’ve already forgiven you in the way I’ve forgiven every man I’ve loved  I’m still detangling the ways my mother loved and was loved  I’m still grieving my childhood self and teenage self and college self Once he told me, “I say thing...

 We fell into each other last night like all those nights we had before  But we both knew it was different I kept kissing your cheeks and whispering in the dark to you And you just tucked my body into yours and told me to go to sleep. And maybe you thought I was sleeping  But I felt you kiss between my shoulder blades multiple times,  Tap your feet against mine Curl your fingers around mine. Somewhere between morning and the end I could feel your nose at the nape of my neck telling me that the way I smelled was comforting, as you pushed my hair off my face.  You fucked me under the premise that it was making love and now despite the fact that you’re familiar with the most intimate parts of me, You used my formal name on the phone and couldn’t even muster an apology. And it was somewhat like dejavu About this time of year  Telling a man I loved on the phone that I wouldn’t be a choice, a hesitation.  And you were always asking for a poem  For me to...

 Your laugh crackled on the end of the phone  I could hear water in the speakers and the water in the tub wrapped around my legs as I pulled them up to my chest  “I think about you more than once a day,” you said. I paused,  because really you didn’t say those things much.  Several I miss you’s were smoothed over and when I recited a grocery list of all the things I liked about you, you gave me a sticky note. A defensive laugh slipped out of me when I told you -  “Well, of course I think about you more than once but I’m trying not to freak you out.” My affection for you was always slipping between my fingers. Tumbling out of faucets and over the edge of bathtubs, as I tried to mop up the water quickly. I can hear the water dripping even after the pipes have rusted shut, It’s as loud as your absence.

 I think I read somewhere that patterns repeat themselves in the world, that there’s a limited amount  The textbook had a picture of a seashell  and I can’t remember if it was a math book Or perhaps a science book Maybe it was a sequence and not a pattern  And perhaps it doesn’t matter at all Because here I am again, alone in my bed Writing poetry While the sequence repeats  Just with a different boy  Before long I’ll turn the light off And think of all the ways I could disprove this theory  How I could unravel the pattern Rip the dejavu from the seams  And forget to listen for the sound of a knock at the door That never comes  And maybe just fall asleep

He hovered above me with the mess of sheets separating us, His arms almost cradling my head. Periodically picking up a piece of hair between his fingers from where it fanned out across his bed In doing so my eyes would flutter and I’d resist the urge to close them while the ocean in my chest crashed against my rib cage. I was holding my breath  Like the lack of wind would settle the storm brewing beneath I could feel his weight against me My chest ached and my breath stuttered with the effort of holding it inside as every other piece of me evacuated the shore  He asked me, “can you breathe?” I nodded and I could feel his weight shift as he held back more His eyes searched my face  And I thought of you in that motel room  The way you hovered above me so hesitantly  And how one hand cupped my face firmly while the edge of your thumb softly rubbed against my wet eyelashes The other stroked my hair, pushing it away from my face while I became undone  Both times...