010. from the first friday to the last.
I’ve been rewriting history to fit you in it;
words inspired by others were lived out in your apartment
songs meant for others were sung for you
and you were given a starring role in this paltry narrative.
But I’ve been recast,
(Into a new role, a new light, a new mold)
shelved, and forgotten
(reconsidered and abandoned)
and if life is just a quest
to fill our God-shaped holes
then mine should have ended that August night
together, on your balcony.
or that night we walked to the corner store
and I finished your vodka.
or every time you called me beautiful
(and meant it)
or adorable
(and meant it)
no.
it should have ended that night
when you barricaded me against my demons
whispering that,
“neither of us is comfortable in our own skin.”
these miles are kissed with the glitter of hope
and marred with the skid marks of defeat
17 miles of highway become the goodbye letter I could never write.
I’ve got 17 miles to write you out of my life.
———————————————————
It’s funny how life works sometimes. How different things are now versus how they were then, and how much has stayed the same. Just an observation. Nothing to give more than a fleeting thought.
Oh, and the above is a poem I worked on for a handful of the last four weeks or so. As horribly self-referential as it is, I’m pleased with how it came out. It was cathartic to write at the very least.
