There was a time
when you and me
were a single word,
and all I heard
in the beating, fluttering earth
was the breath
of you next to me,
when my curves fit yours
because that was home.
My body’s lonely now,
now that you and me
are two different words
and I can’t hear you anywhere
in this silence,
because I don’t remember what it felt like
to hold your hand anymore,
because you decided that anymore,
you didn’t want to hold me.
Love’s a terrible thing
when you’ve been reduced to a scheduling item –
the emotional equivalent of a lamppost,
lovely and terribly convenient to have around,
but not exactly a high emotional investment.
Sometimes you don’t even notice
when the bulb’s gone out.
And then the stretch of putting it off and putting it off,
always meaning to attend to the deadness in your room,
but so much a second thought
that such a nonessential scheduling item
stays dead,
for months,
until finally you know you’ll never put a bulb back
and say fuck it,
then throw it in the trash
so you can get a different, shinier lamppost.
I did not like being that scheduling item.
My bulb left broken for much too long,
even though you kept saying that one day,
things would be brighter.
Quill Aquiver 