somewhere in the middle 10

…i left that room for the last time
and didn’t look back
didn’t want a lasting image of what perfected love looked like
i left that room for the last time
no thoughts of ever returning
to a love that gave up on me
and you were there
no longer on the couch
and no longer caring
you were there
with a drowning heart
and inside of me waves were crashing against thinning skin
but i didn’t slow down
i kept going
kept going out of your life
and into my own…

somewhere in the middle 9

…i shoved clothes into a bag
because i couldn’t stay here
not like this
not with you
when reminders lingered across the walls
and hid in the crevices of the ugly curtains
i couldn’t stay here
not like this
not with you
when reminders of love made itself comfortable in our sheets
or slamming doors echoed in my ear
and rainstorms replayed over and over
i couldn’t stay here
not like this
not with you
because i knew
just like that one time
when the clouds were blue inside
and rage made my skin burn
the sky was a stormy gray
and you
opened closed door after closed door
laid beside me
wrapped yourself into my arms
and cooled ignited rage
and somehow then
i was asking for your forgiveness…

Just a writer

So there’s some lights on my wall and a few of them are fading a little more each night and no this is not a setting for them. The ones that aren’t fading keeps hope alive that one day I might be able to reach them. You choose a playlist collect a few songs and sit down with them in the nighttime a fan circles in the summer heat and erases the words on the tips of your fingers so you grab the keyboard, ready the fingers on the home row willing them to fly as fast as the words read on the screen on your brain and soon words are erased with every blink of a threatening cursor and you’re just a writer so you don’t know how to forgive a cursor who’s only doing the job it’ll always have and that’s not it’s fault but you’re just a writer and none of your feelings are healthy because you can’t separate those from fiction. You’re just a writer who’s lost like every other writer and yearning for something better like fingers that won’t cramp on the grasp of a pen because you barely remember how to hold one and paper that doesn’t run out of space when your mind and tongue and fingers are in sync because turning to a new page eats up time you already wasted but you’re just a writer and the strings of lights on your wall don’t listen to your wishes but swear they read the last thing you wrote.