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 –


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.


One thought on “#71: Letters to a new love

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