rugged hound
So I decided not to beg…
But if you ever need me,
or feel like I should be there,
just turn around
and come find yourself in my arms.
I can miss you forever.
You are a fragment of my soul
left somewhere along the path of life.
You are
every poem
I write.
You always were—
I was just too foolish to notice.
And every letter, every word
is a different lament
for what I never managed to tell you…
and for what we lived
and never truly lived.
I’m sorry for having met you,
for not being enough,
for every piece of me that is still yours.
Forgive me for loving you to a point
where I myself
can no longer hold it…
and you’re not even here
to hear me scream.
But if I stay here,
lie here,
tired of the world, tired of everything,
just missing a time
that, damn… I know won’t come back…
but if I stay…
will you come back someday?
To lie here?
To watch the clouds with me…?
I know it escapes reality,
slips through my hands
and everything they can hold…
but sometimes,
I really want to ask you…
What am I to you?
Or rather…
what was I to you?
A page in your life
you skip when remembering…
but do you skip it because it hurts
enough to be love?
Or because…
I’m insignificant?
Because I no longer fit in your orbit?
Do you remember what was ours?
Does it have any value to you?
Every damn memory
where I was there…?
Tell me… did it matter?
Tell me I didn’t show up here,
love you with my entire damn soul,
just to be set aside…
forgotten so easily…
Sometimes it crosses my mind,
and I—cruel enough to myself—
believe I’ll never have the damn courage
to ask one of my own poems
if I was enough for you,
if I mattered… to you…
I think it’s because I’m afraid of the answer.
So tell me…
even if it’s in silence,
even if it’s in the nothing you left me—
was I real to you?
I’m still here,
stuck between what we were
and what you chose to forget,
trying to find some meaning
in having loved you like this.
Digging purpose out of pain
just so I don’t hate myself for still loving you.
And if I never get that answer…
if all that remains is this echo
bouncing off the walls of what’s left of me,
then I’ll understand.
Not that it didn’t matter…
but maybe it only mattered to me…
And you have no idea.
And honestly, I hope you never do.
I wouldn’t wish this pain on you.
But you have no idea…
what it’s like to exist like this—
writing you
as if I could still reach you.
Maybe this is the end:
not you leaving,
not time passing
and healing like it promises.
Maybe the end of someone who gave everything
is having nothing left…
If every poem I wrote
was a piece of me,
then there were 478 fragments
of my heart and my feelings
placed into your hands…
and still,
they weren’t enough
to make you stay.
steady wolf
odd phoenix
mortal cove
im glad
harsh berry
obsidian wasp
solemn creek
