It is hard to come back to her; I cheat on her, I use her, but I run to her in the middle of the night because I love her and I never lie to her.
No matter the distance created it feels like it is I who left her, but how could I ever be such a fast runner? She must have run too or maybe she walked but she must accept we neglected each other. She left me too! Yet somehow it’s never her fault, how could she have left me when I was already gone? It is I who feels too much and decides to keep to myself. It is I who begins to doubt that she would understand and take me as I am; all of me.
So when I shut the doors of my imagination and feelings and reach for clearer pictures and sounds in movies and music.
She watches me from a distance with tears in lines left unwritten. I don’t know how she finds me again every time and learns to trust me every time. I don’t know why she lets me hold her anytime I have nothing else to hold. I don’t know where she learned to touch me so deep. I fucking don’t know why she holds me when I rub my heart and try to hit the hurt to stay in if it won’t disappear.
If I could trust me like she does. If I could hear myself out and show me the other things that exit like she does. I won’t be sitting here feeling alone and empty. Why do I cut her out so often? Why do I forget how we met, how she saved me and collected my tears until the sheet was wet and I felt listened to and freed.
When I cheat on her, writing lousy reports and proposals, she sits assured that I will run back to her but when it takes too long to get back, how does she feel?
Dear poetry,
Would you forgive me yet another time, would you come back this night? I carry my old sores with me, they are beginning to stink, would you heal them? Would you point to the intact skin surrounding the sore you nurse with love? I brought new sheets. Please walk with me again till we get to the last line. I need you, just you.
Yours,
Yaa
