This is the last time I
start poems talking about how
when I walk into empty rooms, I swear
I hear your laughter echoing.
I won’t speak of this anymore,
but when we were kids you dreamed more.
You wanted to change the world,
you wanted to travel; you said that in your lifetime
even for the tiniest of moments,
you wanted to see the world at peace.
With itself, all its fires put out,
all its glory beheld.
This is my final rant, I promise.
I won’t write love songs for you anymore,
or your mother and how she loved everyone
who walked in her door.
I won’t wait on phone calls,
I won’t listen to coincidences happening
around me and think to myself how you were
once the centre of the universe, for all I knew.
That your gravity had me in your orbit for so long,
I still watch the shadows on your face to tell the time.
This is the last time.
Like last time was
the very last time.
You see, habits are a tough thing to break,
but I’m all out of metaphors
for tonight. I’ll revisit
the library on Monday when it reopens
and I’ll find the book you scribbled secret messages on
for me to find, and I’ll forget this ever happened,
and I’ll write you something again.
But for now
this is the last time.
— Final/ Scribbles by aye rah