Like a good poet,
I dust off the metaphors on my lonely shelf.
I unearth phrases like ‘hurricane heart’,
and my cherry blossoms come untangled
from the knots in my hair;
I add in a shot of whiskey (maybe 4).
These metaphors are losing
their color. I hunger for new words
to describe the way I miss you.
The distance between the sun and the moon
is overused. I don’t want to compare you
to a storm anymore, and don’t even get me
started on space and stardust.
I want to talk about your anatomy;
I need something tangible to grasp at,
instead of straws made of rain-
I want to try and describe
what it is like to feel your fingers
brush against mine while we huddle
on porches of college students and
pretend like we’re not drunk; pretend
like we don’t want to curl up
inside one another.
I’ll let you know when I find the right words.
Maybe then, I will be able to describe
how it feels to still be in love with someone
that I walked away from.