I wait and wait and wait and god I am sick of waiting. To not see your face anymore. To not know the burden that belongs to you. To not imagine the window I looked through the night I found out.
It’s time for me to dust off this weary heart so that I may open it to one whose only open to me. You’re going to miss me when I’m gone and it’ll be too late.
I’m from a state that houses too many cornfields and a town that no one takes seriously- in a home where glass cuts hurt less than deeply wounded words.
I waited, quietly listened, cupped my ear to your mouth, but silence echoed grievously in the absence of sound. It was only warm breath and then emptiness.
Surely I could never be certain of how many stars I’ve counted in the sky or of how such tiny particles can be build into wild-eyed stories like Aquarius and Cassiopeia. I could read you as I would the constellations and never tire.
I hide behind olive branches. So afraid of others knowing what lay beneath the broken rifle. The reality hitting the pavement like bullets that stem from war.
Some days, my mind still flickers, but the light doesn’t stay on. Kind of like the hope I felt when your fingers squeezed my palm. But they simply call that a reflex.
When words tripped off the side of your grin, I felt the statement slip toward my ear like the slide of a skateboard on griptape – how it led me to hate a sport I’ve never even tried.
