Baby, they don’t want this poem.

They want the poem where we realize our mistakes
and compare them to the tide or the sand or the moon.
They want the poem where you come
running back to me
and I have arms pinned open instead of stuck shut.
The poem where nobody admits defeat
and I stop talking about distance
like it has its hands around my throat.

But I am sick of love songs
and writing poems about the moon.

Nothing smells like you here.
I can’t taste the way that you left.
I don’t know how to write this.

I haven’t heard anything about California breaking off
and falling into the Pacific,
but it must have

because you stopped calling me back.

Nobody wants to read this poem.
—  "This Poem", Trista Mateer
Just now the sun is coming up in your city. You wake with the day. You spread your arms out into an otherwise empty bed.

I no longer make this into something poetic.

You reaching for me.
You reaching for me.
You reaching.

It’s just morning. A shower. A coffee cup. An open mouth closed.
—  "Simple", Trista Mateer
Like I Can

I think maybe I took a different direction to what you wanted… but heyoo. SFW, NSFF.

Enjoy x

Like I Can

He could be a sinner, or a gentleman.
He could be a preacher when your soul is damned.
He could be a lawyer on a witness stand.
But he’ll never love you like I can, can.

Things have been different since that night.

Well, of course things were different. How could they not be? Things can’t stay exactly the same after something like that. You can cover up the truth like filling in a hole you’ve dug, but there’s no doubting that things have been altered, that the dirt has been disturbed.


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