July 5^th 2015

I’ve been trying to write this poem for weeks.
I’ve been looking at the blank piece of paper.
I’ve been trying to remember you.

See, that’s the thing
How can I write something for you
If you’re gone.
If I don’t remember you,
If you’re someone else.
If I’m someone else.
You’re not the same one who used to give me butterflies.
I am not the one who used to call you ‘love.’

How can I write about you if I don’t remember love?
The feeling.
I felt love for the first time with you.
When you kissed me at my front door
And you didn’t think about it twice
You just said it.

“I Love You.”

I remember the words, but not how I felt.
I don’t know how that feels no more.
You said it.
Like it was nothing,
But it was a lot,
and for you it was so easy.

Loving was easy.

I think about it. Once or twice.
You just feel it and let it all out.

I’m scared.

I guess I’m not really writing about you anymore.
Maybe I never did.
These poems are meant to be for the men that loved me.

But no.

I’m writing about me.
About my selfishness.
Because that’s what destroyed us.

‘Us’ as in ‘me.’
There was never an ‘us.’
It was me and maybe,
Just maybe,
A small, tiny, part of you.