I just want to write poetry today. I just want to lose my mind in the words and not thing about anything else. Not think about the dishes piled in the sink, the trash that hasn’t been taken out, or the laundry in the basket in my closet with the mirror-doors—the ones where we laughed at our reflections, telling stories with our eyes.
I want to write poetry and remember the way your hands touched my hips, the way they made me feel light and fragile in a way I never imagined I could be with all the muscle and strength I hide behind. I want to feel the humility in your fingertips again, pulling me to you with a softness I couldn’t believe a man like you would ever be capable of—the callouses, the scruff, the rough edge of your nails holding me like I was the most precious item in the world.
I want to write poetry and not feel your absence like a hole in my chest, not wonder where you are or if you’re breathing cold morning air and thinking of me. And if you’re not, I want to know whether it was easy to forget or how you exhaled and simply unremembered all that we were.
I want to write poetry about the language of love, and how sometimes life carries you away, but words bring you back. They always do.
I want to romanticize the sound of your voice until I hear it again, write your whispered ‘I love yous’ on my skin until my heart stops beating so loud. I want to memorize the way your lips pressed against mine and how the taste was both foreign and safe.
I want to write poetry until I’m no longer imagining what it would feel like to be loved by you. Until you’re standing before me. Until the words have carried you here. Until you simply stay.