One of my first blog posts was about “unshared poetry”– the poems we write for ourselves without the desire or need to share them. In my opinion, these poems help us heal (the writer, not the reader). However, today, I will be sharing some of my own personal “unshared poetry.”
I consider that enough time has passed since the moment I wrote this poem until now. I let the words sink into the page for long enough to heal myself and now these same words may be able to heal, inspire, or comfort someone else.
This is a rough draft of my emotions in a moment when I simply needed someone to listen– and that someone was the page.
So, here you go:
Blurry Vision
We were laying on your bed, over your blue comforter. It could have
been red, or grey for I never knew what your favorite color was.
Its softness caressed our skin radiating comfort like the soft touch
of a mother on her kid’s cheek. Or perhaps the grass crashed with our weight,
the heaviness of our hearts. The smell of the rain, the freshly cut trees
reminding us of our first camping day last summer. Or the sand
under our skin smooth like ash hugging our bodies.
You wore your Adidas sweatpants, black with three white stripes
on each side of your legs like a railroad to guide my touch across your body.
Or your light blue skinny jeans you loved so much but I gave you those,
after this day. They couldn’t have been, right? Or you wore your swimsuit,
the teal ones. They wrapped around your legs like aluminum foil molded
by the touch of the ocean. You melt in her presence.
Or maybe you never liked the ocean.
You picked me up in your white Camaro. The roaring of its engine
reminding me of an angry horse. Or maybe, it was a horse. Your carriage stopped
on my sidewalk as you brought a bouquet of white roses to my door.
Or red, but you knew the white ones were my favorite.
“Good morning, baby,” you said. Or you just honked.
The smell of your cologne impregnated my clothes
with your essence. A mixture of sweetness and danger fit perfectly
into a red glass bottle of your Polo cologne. The same one
on my bathroom cabinet. Or perhaps it was the smell of liquor
exciting your mouth with every breath what polluted
my nostrils. Or the smell from the time your lips first tasted
a cigarette, and as if it wasn’t enough, you inhaled.
That was the night you told me you loved me right after you felt my skin
for the first time. Or perhaps you only said you enjoyed the view
of my body lying next to you, as if I was yours
to keep. Or you didn’t say anything at all because you had just
achieved the one thing you always wanted: to make someone
fall in love with you. Or maybe it was the night you looked away
as two negative poles run away from each other. Maybe, next time
find a positive one.
Oh, my mind has become a blur since you left me. Our first night
becomes one with our last one. Everything in the middle
turns into a melodic composition of your lies. I am left with nothing
other than my own feelings because I know
those were real.
