Monday Blues

I could hear the wind,

rustling through your veins, when

you opened your mouth and the gnarled wings of a hummingbird fell out.

I could taste the regret,

on your skin, when

you told me you would love me,

forever.

It was all

red and

saltwater and

the burn of citrus in a papercut that

just won't heal.

 

Sometimes,

I open my eyes, and I see your face burned

into the stars

and

I guess that's why I try to figure out

how the ancients picked which gods to tell stories about.

How I picked you.

 

And it's hard,

sometimes,

seeing the shirt you wore on our first date

on another person

crossing the street.

Or

your mother's favorite flower

resting on the side of the highway.

They fill my nose with smells that remind me of

the color of your eyes and

the brush of your fingertips against my lips.

 

It's Monday, and I should be sitting in a coffee shop,

leaning in to kiss

her

because her laugh is like

starshine

and her eyes remind me of

the forests of the town I grew up in,

green and

grey and

tired and

nostalgic for a time that has never been stumbled upon.

But,

it's Monday, and

I'm sitting here alone in

this tiny room,

drunk on wine and

the sound of a piano in the distance,

playing our song,

wishing for the sear of a cigarette

clenched

between my teeth.

 

It's a quiet night, and

somehow,

I can hear the sound of

your heartbeat in bed next to me,

even over the

shouting blue and the

shattering gold.

It's thumping out a melody,

whose words are fluttering in

through the curtains

on a spring breeze,

and as I lean into the caress of the air,

I can hear you,

reminding me,

to never trust

a happy song.

This poem is about: 
Me

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