Poets Would Call Us A Tragedy

Our hometown isn’t big enough

for the both of us

to live parallel to one another.

Whether I’m driving past your house,

or you’re turning on my street,

it’s like a kaleidoscope

of what we used to be.

Young and reckless,

but never free from the chains

we once thought were heartstrings.

If you approached me now,

the walls I’ve built to keep you out

would open up, celebratory.

Guilty me.

Poets would call us a tragedy.

But I can see you so clearly,

melting on the edge of my lips,

destroying my everything

just so you can be the one

to hold it all together.

Admittedly, if I could warn

my younger self,

I’d tell her to run from you,

but I don’t think she’d listen.

This is where it gets tricky,

shouldn’t being in love be easy,

searching for you in every crowd

no matter how many people I know,

saving notes of things to tell you

if you were here,

keeping the left side of the bed empty,

dreams full of you

saying you’ll show up,

and it’s no surprise, you never do,

only at the wrong time,

only when it’s convenient,

when you feel like it.

When I have children one day,

will they know you or hear about you.

Crashing the car in my mind,

on purpose, every time I pick you up again,

even after I said the last time was the last time.

There’s no way you can be so fine,

loving you is walking a tight line,

call me please, and ask me to meet you tonight.