Open Water

I had another conversation with my mom about you.

We never said your name, but we both knew.

I told her I didn’t understand

how my classmates move on so quickly,

boy after boy,

city to city,

and what about me?

What about me?

I’m about to turn twenty-three

but sometimes

I feel like I’m stuck at eighteen,

and the day you left me.

I drove past your street,

and thought about saying hi to your family,

or leaving a note at the door

with a box of your things that says,

“Sorry it took so long to return these,

I was mad at you.”

If I stare at the ocean long enough,

will you eventually come back

to sit by me?

I harbor feelings long enough

to forget all of the mean things you said to me.

The open water washes me in blue, and I miss you.

Meet me for a drink?

Within the next decade.

Where it’s right place,

right time,

you’re not so angry,

and I stand tough.

Now that the sun sees right through me,

what will my friends think?

I hear your laugh in every bar

and at every party,

or have I become

hung up on a nightmare?

What do I do now?

Now that I know

that I don’t want to

check boxes off someone else’s list.

Everybody tells me that

I’ll be ready when I’m ready,

but they don’t know

what it’s like to love you,

or even worse,

to love you, and then lose you.