loopy-lexy

Looking back you’ll understand why this is the year they all write their songs about. This is the year synonymous with love. It’s all around you – romantic and platonic and unrequited and never-ending even in all its fleeting glory. There are promises and forevers said with doubtless sincerity. Friends are as good as family until they betray you and it hurts you more than any lover could. This is the year of aching. You lie awake at night thinking about the one – you know the one  – the one that will lead to your demise. And so you go on dates with harmless sweethearts with kind eyes and shy smiles and try to

The world is moving too fast for me. I can barely take a breath before everything is gone or changed or missing and I'm emptier than I was yesterday, when I was as empty as I could be. I turn on the porch light as though I'm waiting for someone. And perhaps I am, because not waiting is foreign to me. It takes all my don't-wants to figure out what I do want. I don't want to just see how it goes. I don't want to be convenient. I don't want to be an optional possibility. I want to be a big event.

when did you become someone i don't know [if i even want to know]?

I think it's your birthday today. I should be certain but sometimes it seems as though everyone was born in June and it makes me wonder what happened in October '89 that had everyone making love. I don't know about '89 but in 2009 you were the glue mending my broken excuse for a heart, the breath in my every laugh. I was addicted to your logical, reassuring mind and ever-present promise of hope. I was addicted to being needed, to keeping all the secrets tearing you apart. I miss being your turquoise terminator and crumpled crumpet and saucy salamander and effervescent iguana. I miss complaining and over sharin

i read poems about girls who don't know where they lost their heart and their passion and the light in their eyes. except they do- they lost it to the one who promised he would stay forever and a day. and now they're looking for the inflection in his tone that would have hinted at "maybe", a pupillary constriction that subtly whispered, "if no one better comes along". but maybe there wasn't one. and maybe he knew all along that she wasn't his first and wouldn't be his last but heck, her smile was so pretty when she said she'd always love him. or maybe he'd been thinking about a boy with her eyes and a girl with her

i'd like to believe i seeped into your soul, draped across the pulse points at your temples and segmented throughout your connective tissue. that some nights you're shaken awake by the demons of your past and for a brief haphazard moment you wonder where i am. that every once in a blue moon you remember what it's like to hold me while i fight back tears, to hold my sweaty palm in yours. i am sick to my stomach. i am naïve. i am selfish. i am sorry. my blood still boils when i think of you. you're the epitome of love and passion and sleepless nights in a way i don't think i could ever forget. you've left a mark like no one else i've eve

December 25th and I've had 365 days to forget your aunt's incredible roast turkey and braiding tinsel through your sister's hair and interpretive dancing to cheesy carols with your drunken Uncle Mark. Firelight flickered across the curve of your lips, the shadow of your jaw and boy, you were beautiful, all smoke and cinnamon. December 25th and I'm ignoring the urge to mess up your sleet slickened hair and the fact that your card now says "from" instead of "love". I almost don't notice the way your eyelashes glitter with snowflakes and the fact that you look adorable while you laughingly attempt to make a snow a

If I saw you now I'd tell you; I still keep that letter you sent, under the hourglass on my bookshelf. I know that seven months have passed now and any normal person would lose it at the back of a drawer or in the stack of recyclable papers. But I'm not normal and it stays there, like the photo of us in the bottom drawer of my bedside table and the ridiculous card you made for my sixteenth birthday. Some nights I drag them all out, and when the blackbird starts greeting the morning I'm still pouring over the way you illegibly loop your letters and wondering if the dimple in your right cheek has managed to get any deeper. Some nights I wonder

they say that nights are torture- when the numbness has worn off and it's nearing 3a.m. and some lone stranger that got their life together better than you did drives past, through the silent darkness. there's a possum on the roof but his company doesn't help you're still all alone and your heart aches with heaviness and a longing for someone to hold, for a way to turn back time. but me, i think mornings are worse- that split second after you wake up, when you wish you hadn't.