GMfreak64

Every close friend and self-help book have assured me that time heals, and hide away objects that remind me, and chin up, I could always have done better than you. So under a hot August sun, I… deleted you from Snapchat, and according to Facebook we are no longer friends, and can you still see my poetry? I… ripped down all of my photos of you, stashed all of your gifts away deep in my closet. and sent clothes that still smelled like you to the post office. I waited until October to decide something was wrong with me So I… took hot showers to burn away memories but thinking of your touch as sinful was even hotter tha

When we’d stay awake until dawn talking about ideas our HL history and Malcolm Gladwell’s “Blink” couldn’t even fathom, I told you once how scared I was that you would break my heart Do you know what longing is? It is a tootsie roll wrapper in the pocket of an old coat twice my size. It is chapstick that I took from your mother’s bathroom. It is a dryness in my throat when I hear students mutter in German as they pass me. When I sway my hips to Spanish music. When I find myself writing love poetry, trying to make my last lines rhyme just like in your poetry When you told me you loved me for the first

when I met you, I was under the false impression that when two universes collide, the weaker fizzles out. That my world depended on the success of yours. We would count out the possibilities we could go in, like our lives were marbles, shooting out in every which direction. Only when my marbles fell into cracks, they were forgotten. You would talk, with such sweetness and determination, you could lead soldiers into battle. But you let me forget that I could create worlds and life with my fingertips; that my universe had just as many stars as yours.

march 20th was a grey friday -- most fridays are grey in china. you can’t land in shanghai tired, but i was, and i was american, and the grey skies seemed gentle, and not as harsh. when you travel, they say, you should experience the culture. but we ate lunch at mcdonalds, and the food was grey, just like the sky, and i wondered if i would see everything grey, forever. the second tallest building in the world is in shanghai. it spirals up like a tall, sharp icicle, and pierces the sky, maybe. you can’t look up that far before the brightness blinds you. but it’s all glass, and when the sunlight filters down grey,

Tonight, I will hide amongst the stars, laying your head gently against the moon as a pillow, because the darkness of night is the softest bed sheets. I will envelop myself in your arms, pull myself further into the recesses of that dark cavern, of warmth, of softness, of silence. comment allez-vous? In the Garden of Eden, the sun never sets. So melt with me, in thick, blurring pigments of pink and orange. Drown with me, in the Seine, in cherry blossoms. vous êtes encore là? Open the window, and meet me under the stars. Don’t say a word, baby, language is cold. I am cold. Your hands are warm, wrap them around my

I wrote this for you. In pen. It was on the back of my favorite book – One you’ve probably never read, let alone heard of. It was 2:50 in the afternoon, my leg was shaking, I was anxious. I’m always anxious when I think of you. It is not romantic enough, to make your heart beat backwards. I am not romantic, with chipped nails and chapped lips. But you know everything. You can shape the world with your hands, so here are the stars, I wrote them into place for you. I can’t give you the moon, it is too bright, too beautiful for me. But the stars are broken and twinkle, beat on softly like my heart, sparkle carefully

pet my hair at midnight, hugged close against your chest. call me “princess” – whisper it softly, make me struggle to hear (that you—that someone might love me) i’ll bat my baby blues up at you. tell me how the world works, with your hand over mine, but only every so lightly – your breath soft, touch barely there (that you – that someone is gentle enough for me) and I will believe you. let me follow you, with my hair stringy in my face. my heart beating rapidly – from running and running and running (like my bony legs will carry me far away) i’ll pretend that I’ve always been ch

She took up a handful of the dirt. It was dry, crumbled through her fingers. Bony fingers, spidery hands. Like a moth, She’d broken through a shell, Fragile and vulnerable, Terribly torn from the inside out. It was cold. The way that broke through your bones, nestled up against your chest, made you shiver with each deep breath. Like the moon, Slivers of her cut open the sky, Standing alone, Wishing she didn’t stand out.

sometimes i blink, and for a second, a flash of time, i’m right back there, i get a second chance. i won’t let go of my happy ending this time.

for a long time, i refused to burn bridges. i would not be the one, years later to lay in the wake of ashes, with unfamiliar faces, but similar memories, and regret it all. i would not be the fool, to pretend it all didn’t matter, just to make myself forget. but my ghosts do not remember me. they haunt me, and then ask, “who are you?” and stare with hallow eyes, regretting asking me. tears stream down faces, i am accused for abandoning it all. it does not matter, that i am the one who still holds our memories, because i am the one who left.