It feels weird
Writing you out like a distant idea.
Understanding that my words have made you a memory,
kind of like the mulberry tree that I used to pick from
or a girl called Laura from my childhood, who is admittedly my
You are the second love that I’ve felt the need
to make a memory. You are, however, the first I’ve felt
like my words are a courtesy, or my thoughts are excessive.
Instead of a splinter, I thought a forest of you.
You were a mosquito bite
like a storm of locusts.
You have not made me
bleed as much as this poem wants me on a hospital bed.
I am not here, wishing for Winter
or pleading for a handshake. I am only
sad that all you’ve done is made me in between.
I am a crack in the sidewalk, I am a mattress cover, I am
holding a plane ticket, I am dissonance.
I may be torn.
But I am not drowning, I am not
my soul is soggy like a wet napkin after
a cup of coffee has fallen
with the floor.