I was my most vibrant self with you. At least you own that. You have more memory of my passion than I do. Some days I think you were the cause of it. Some days I want to scream at you to give it back. Some days I feel it like a dull ache on my fingertips but I can’t bring myself to grab hold of the feeling. It belongs to you more than me now. That’s the piece of me I left you.
you have the kind of face that turns people to poetry. i’ve spent years trying to find the right metaphors for your eyes and keep coming up short, keep leaving crumpled papers in trash cans and old notebooks, half-hoping you’ll find them there. like the poems could ever bring you back home. like the poems could ever stun the way you do.