I know you don’t feel sorry at all for breaking my heart and giving me so much pain but I wish you would realize that what you did to me is so cruel and it’s hurting me so bad so you won’t do that to another girl, again
The August sun is a bundle of ivory
hawks. Today, they have flown down to land
on your shoulders. Your old, yellow
housecoat, it cannot hide
the things I know. The sky,
merely something for your skin
to be brighter than. This wide mouth
of sun, wishing to hold you
like a cub in its teeth.
It’s time now to pull over,
to make it off the road.
I know you may be stubborn
dismissing pain that has echoed.
I know you feel reluctant
in relinquishing control,
but if you let me help you
we may remedy your soul.
“Letter from a Hopeless Passenger,” by Grazia Curcuru
I’m sorry that you may not be alive. I don’t know anything about you except for one thing.
You loved to read poetry.
That is our connection.
You loved to read poetry, I’ll dissect that simple thought, I’ll surgically remove every letter from that simple string of words and I’ll come up with the why.
Why you loved to read poetry.
Why you loved to read mine.
Poetry is written by heartfelt souls who want nothing more but to help those in need to feel, feel more. So I’ve been writing to you, everyday, I write to you. I hope that you’ll get some of these poems, the day you send an ask that read;
“I’m going to be gone soon,
I can feel it in my bones.”
I tag every poem with reflected moonlight because when you told me about your leukemia, the moon was out and I wasn’t all the way there–
but the moon was, it danced on my eyes as I read your anonymous message.
I don’t know if you had beautiful brown hair that other girls would be jealous of–
I don’t know if you had stunning green eyes that made boys fall in love with spring–
I don’t know if you had a smile that could be used to replace the Mona Lisa–
I don’t know if you were kind to all people or if you were a sassy and sarcastic individual–
I don’t know if you had a personality that could spill happiness into the world or if you had little or close to no personality at all–
I just know one thing.
You loved to read my poetry.
You loved to dwell in my love poems.
You loved to read, that is our connection.
Poetry that helps us feel something,
the content and material runs deep–
death, life, love, hate, anger, happiness, depression, bitter, sweet, joyful, delighted, jealousy, repulsive, disgust, nature, space, stars like you and people we’ll always miss–
poetry like you, it’ll never be enough for this place we call home.
I don’t know if you’ve ever had your first kiss.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been in love.
I don’t know if someone held your hand as you slipped away into an endless sleep.
I don’t know if someone is missing you right now. I don’t know anything about you.
But I still write like I do.
I still write like I’ve loved you at some point.
I still miss you even though I’ve never met you. I still try to put you back into my constellations of never ever will I let you go.
I still write because I don’t know if anyone has ever cared about you to think about you every fucking day. I don’t know. So I’ve been writing.
Since you loved to read, it just so happens–
I love to write, maybe even more than you loves words that splattered all over a journal.
So as long as your memory lives within me–
As long as you exist within my mind palace,
as long as you’re willing to survive yourself into my terrible place, & as long as I’m fucking breathing… I’ll always write. I’ll keep you alive.
Until my heart stops beating red into roses.
Until my soul stops splashing paint all over my poetry, & until my apologies make it to you–
I’ll write forever back into you,
because you’re my always and forever
that I’ve never whispered into
such soft and calm ears–