I have started journals with
“I met someone”, decorated in tears,
ersatz heartbreak the colour of blue
painted his eyes in Van Gogh starry nights
and chased highs to forget the blows.
I have tasted champagne on his lips,
strawberry tart and regret bitter,
strange emptiness that spreads
through all the crevices he touched
and all the un-nameable places
where Sadness has parked.
I have started poems with “I think I’m in love”,
spelt with flowery language and rhyming couplets,
pantomiming at relationships, flourished
and embellished by checklists, one, two, three,
fall, fall, fallen. Before I really knew
Love was more than just a consolation,
more than the sum total of selfish desires,
before I realized that touches didn’t need
to translate into poetry.
I have never said, “I met myself”, but this time,
in the rain, in the heat of summer,
in the height of reckless abandonment,
I did. I met myself
and I am glorious.
This piece first appeared on Medium, written & published 092517. If you enjoyed this, please head on over there & hit the “claps” button.
You can also check out / follow @CharlleyThen for more of my poetry / prose.