“These days she says she doesn’t remember much about those times. She’ll smile in an unusual way, laugh in kindly appreciation of a painful lesson gone by. But it’s the eyes that give her away. You see, in her eyes flash photographic memories of him. These are the windows to the heart she no longer opens. If you ever bother peering in when she’s not looking, there is dust upon the clutter of words she’s never spoken, a yellowed pile of letters she’s never written. And if you press your ear gently upon the pane and listen hard, down within the deepest recesses of her soul her tears are still raining upon his indifference. For every other girl he’s ever kissed, for every second she's waited he's dismissed – she fades like an old photograph into a colorless dimension of cruel reality. You just can’t cry your heart out and emerge from sorrow’s clutches the very same person.”last night I made a man
out of pillows and forgotten
fragments of clothes
we’d pushed into my drawers.
I held my pillow-man’s hand
and made sure he wasn’t too warm
because it is summer;
I’m on the second floor;
and that was always your
biggest complaint.
this morning I tried to shower
but would turn off the water and run
like a soapy dog, complete with
loyal tail wagging, to the door
thinking you’d come knocking.
You hadn’t.
tomorrow will taste like
the food of a week ago
and I’ll wear sunglasses,
which, if you know me,
(and you do)
will seem out of context
and like a little girl
playing dress up.
I know there are supposed to be
thunderstorms, perfect
radio love songs, movies with Meg
Ryan and wondering when we’ll meet
again,
but God
doesn't budge on the details.
-poem online, which i thought was so sad and perfect.
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