Morning, Evening After


Your friend asked me if I had written anything about you. I said I hadn't. But I found this, the poem I wrote when you originally broke my heart. The poem I finished writing when I thought you could mend it. I hope this is satisfying enough, a piece of writing you can brag was written about you. 

Morning, Evening After

It's 8:27 AM, the morning after.
I'm lying in my mother's bed because conveniently my father's out of town,
and I couldn't sleep alone last night.

A Kleenex box sits morose next to my computer
every tissue used ten times over.
The screen of my Microsoft Word document is harsh to my bloodshot eyes.
My mother keeps forcing Ibuprofen down my throat to be proactive against a crying headache.

The pain is much more than a headache,
it's more than a heartache.
Inside my ribs, there is no heart pumping blood to my body,
It is a stone that is barely managing to go through the motions.

I cry all the way to my grandparents house,
Forty-five minutes there and forty-five minutes back.
Also the two hours that I stay.
The skin underneath my eyes is raw and red,
and with each swipe of a tissue I feel a sting
that reminds me how horrible I was to you.

I tell you the stone metaphor when I call you
the first thing I do is apologize for the tears that can't stop coming.
I say "I love you" for the very first time, and all you reply is
"I don't know what to say."

I was always told that patience is a virtue, but fuck that.
For the first time all day I remember that my emotions matter too.
I give you a time limit, and I sob until you respond.
Within fifteen minutes, everything seems fine again. 

We're repeating our first date on Friday at a place downtown,
and you suggested it, not me.
The first time we met, we made out there, hopefully it’ll happen again.

It's 9:13PM the evening after.
I'm sitting at my office desk because conveniently I have a personal narrative due day after next,
and I procrastinated for weeks until now.
A copy of the Scarlet Letter sits invitingly next to my computer
Every page read ten times over.
The screen of my Microsoft Word document is normal to my no longer crying eyes. My mother sits downstairs watching television because her therapeutic job is done.

No comments:

Post a Comment