Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing, poetry

#71: Letters to a new love

I feel nothing coming but the apocalypse,
it surrounds me in a muddle of tar I can’t get out of –
it clings to my skin and stains the white palms of my hands yellow.

*.*

Once you’re past your golden years,
you begin to smell like the stink of the old apartments you used to live in –
the stale cigarettes, the empty beer bottles,
the mould that crept inside the walls of your bathroom,
it’s a part of you.

You carry that stink with you within every relationship you try to begin.

*.*

I’m so excited.
I’m so excited to start again with you.
Here are the memories I want to relive:
I want to stare at you at 4:30 in the early morning,
with mania in my eyes and cackle –
I want hysteria to shield our bodies from the sputtering rain –
I want the hilarity of the situation to make me choke, make me stutter in that
wordless, heavenly language between insanity and laughter –
Why, why are you doing this with me?”

“What do you mean?! You wanted to! This was YOUR idea!”

And for you to follow through, unquestioning, never doubting, even for a second, the scope of my irrationality.

*.*

I want to love you with as much intensity and naivete as a sixteen-year-old would,
I want you unraveled and exposed.
I want to take your hand and explore the universe with Halley –
75 years of continuous up,
no doubts, no downs,
no diminishing returns –
a new life without boundaries,
a new life without
cul –
de –
fucking –
sacs.

*.*

No flat tires, no bad decisions, no seizures from sheer exhaustion, no holes made in the wall by balled-up fists so full of anger, no crumpled, white dresses, no cut hands, no locked bathrooms, no used-up, spent razor blades, no broken wine glasses, no listening to the silent, repeating drops of water tiptoeing down a rain pipe, no cold nights spent in park benches, no empty apartments full of yellow paint and scratches of I love you in neon pink spray paint, no dead birds.

Just sinking beds, and furious love-making.

*.*

Someone told me it would never feel the same, just different.
That you can’t pick out the good parts and replay them,
that it’s a new experience entirely.

I want a re-load.
I want to go back to my last checkpoint and start over.

*.*

I smile at this new world I now live in,
it’s so hauntingly familiar, but somehow different.
Waiting for this to become comfortable,
waiting for this to transform me –

waiting for the day where I find a land stable enough
to exhale the past that once imprisoned me.

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