ashe vernon

A psychic once told me that
I had seen death
three times.
If only she knew how often death
made an appearance in my bathroom mirror,
how I greet him as casually as an estranged neighbor.
If only she knew how I learned
to turn him away.
Dear person I will be when I am not
I’m coming.
Save a seat
for me.
—  A Cynic’s Letter To Her Future Self (Pt 2) by Ashe Vernon
To whoever loves me next,
I’m sorry if I’m afraid of you
or if days of flirting turn to
radio silence, without warning.
I’m sorry if I make you say the words
over and over and over until I believe them.
(I’m sorry if I don’t believe them.)
I will probably spend more time
worrying about losing you than I spend
trying to keep you. Trouble is,
every single time I’ve ever thought
something was too good to be true–
I’ve been right.
I will know how to be vulnerable with you,
but I won’t know how not to regret it.
And I have no idea how deep we’ll be
into this relationship before I admit
I’ve never done this before.
Not really.
Not in any way that counts.
Before I admit that I know
how to put my body inside someone else’s
but not how to make it beautiful.
I probably won’t be easy to love.
Too many people loved me badly,
I’m not sure I know how
to do it right.
He doesn’t write poems but you hope he loves you like one. You hope he sees you like a symphony, like a sculpture, like paint, like clay, like something he can get on his hands. You hope he’s painting you in colors that don’t even exist just so he can go looking for the names of them. You hope he sees you like you are every sunset he missed when he wasn’t looking. You don’t understand the way he thinks, but you hope he thinks of you often.
—  Ashe vernon