We scramble to pick up pieces in the aftermath
Fragments of love and friendship,
Shattered
Into shards of loneliness and blame
Sharp enough to cut our fingers,
Open blooming arteries,
Or saw through bone.
But we hold our own pieces,
Careful not to wound one another
Even though we gave each other the tools.
For now, that decision is enough to live with
And slowly we will rebuild
Me, my lofty castle walls
And you, your forest full of dreams.
It’s the right thing to do, I tell myself
You owe him this much
Honesty and tact are not my forte
But for him I try anyway.
It’s the right thing to do, I tell myself
You owe yourself this much
Love and courage are not my forte
But for myself I’ll try anyway.
All it takes is a photograph
Or a line from a book,
A song.
Old sweatshirts soaked in memories smelling of cologne and Autumn bonfires,
The sleeve still bearing your fingerprints and whenever I wear it I feel your hand like a phantom limb
haunting me.
The rivers of my mind flow like saltwater rapids in remembrance of my tears,
Bringing up sepia-toned scenes and late-night conversations in hushed tones,
Every moment recorded and replaying, repeating
Like a trampoline timeline, stretching and bouncing me back to the beginning.
the Honest Poet