Not a love poem
And I know not to write a love poem about you
because that’s what you don’t expect me to do.
And this is not because we aren’t in love—we are—or
because you aren’t a boy and I’m not a girl—
because that’s true, too—but because
when the tender hush of our distance is far,
I go deaf, and I can’t see you. My senses are gone
in accordance to you. And you know how I’m bleeding
for you, open heart begging you, and eyes crying for you
to follow me down bleeding and begging and crying too.
On an October day, history repeats itself,
or I predict the repetition. Heartbreak then. Same girl.
Different boy.
Up, down, topsy-turvy, driving through town alone,
splashing in after-rain puddles and hearing
the steady boom da-boom of a bass but it’s not
just a sound anymore but a heartbeat that I can’t
understand because I’ve never lain at night in bed
for hours and listened to anyone’s heartbeat but yours.
So this isn’t a love poem. It’s a goodbye poem.
Farewell. Adios. Au revoir. Arrivederci.
There aren’t enough languages to know
how to say it right. Months that seem more like days.
The falsified shortness should help,
but it’s my own shortness of breath that is
stopping the flow of oxygen
to my brain that for so long has held images
of your face and outline.
10/27/14
