Will my succeeding poems sound like the peal you—my supposed-to be lover—used to
make when we laid there, defenseless against the stars?
The truth is, the ends of the earth are just insignificant
strips of land, inglorious, undisturbed by goaded footsteps— All except our very own.
The truth is, I never mastered the art of wearing my heart on my sleeve
without bleeding myself dry. Just know that 'good bye' and 'you aren't really happy'
have the same undertone when you think about it,
one just slightly more acidulated than the other. You should know that I mean both.
The truth is, there's nothing here left to worship.
The Summer Solstice never really spoke my love language. Somewhere, the last of our stars are drowning,
and the oceans are consuming the remnants of our footsteps on land.
The truth is, I would've traded almost everything to trust you again.
I never expected you to give each of my too bright days reason,
to shoulder the estuaries of my sorrow. I certainly never expected you to know me. Really know me. The truth is, I'd still sit down with you on a Friday, pour you a glass,
and whether you appear in flesh or in spirit,
just know that 'we meet again' and 'are you planning to stay?'
have the same undertone when you think about it. One is just slightly more acidulated than the other. The truth is, I really hope you know that I mean both.
August 1, 2021 Painting by Vita Art Magic
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