My heart is a scratch-paper canvas with many layers of memories I’ve tried to cover
up before you. For me, being let go is something that I’ve grown quite accustomed to.
Stroke by stroke, I struggle to paint a picture of a life without you in it. The colors
bleed beneath my teardrops. Repetition reminds me that you won’t be easy to hide,
but I am no longer afraid to make mistakes. They’re expected.
When I woke up this morning I wiped the sleep from my eyes and your smile
from my mind. It found me again by the time I reached the bus stop. I didn’t expect
it to hang around for very long; historically speaking, I’ve never been difficult to
walk away from. I can be a lot to handle at times, but you ought to know that by
now. After all, I’ve given you plenty of fair warnings.
Somewhere between gates 6 and 7, I find the deep breath that I have been searching for
since you said goodbye. “It’s not me. It’s you,” you told me sympathetically. “Your heart
is too beautiful.” Apparently it’s possible to love too much. I never knew, but I’m also not
surprised. This isn’t the first time that I’ve been here. Summer after summer of
bed sheets and broken hearts. Sometimes, I forget whose side that I am on.
“What do you love about me?” You asked. I meant it when I told you, “Everything.” I should
have added, “Even the parts that leave me breathless and torn. Even the arguments and the
panic attacks. Even the sound of your footsteps when you are leaving. It reminds me of the
beat of your heart. I love how brave we once were and how close we almost came to everlasting."
You don’t believe anyone could love those parts. But I do.
Never before have I met someone who believed so strongly in fairies, but could not fathom
forever. Permanency has never been appealing to a heart like yours; full to the brim with
unsettling wanderlust. Your soul wants freedom and your mind sees me as a cage that you could
never fit comfortably inside. I press the pads of my fingertips together. I wonder how your
hands feel after all these years of holding on to someone else’s.
Four years ago, I would have flown across the country, caught a cab to your doorstep, and set
your heartbeat into a frenzy as you unsuspectingly rounded the corner. I would have only gotten
through a few lines of poetry before breaking down. Through tears, I’d ask you to make promises
that you could never keep. You would gently squeeze my arm - apologize as you sidestepped
around me- already late to where you were going.
Instead, I’m on a flight to Missouri writing poetry that’ll never change the outcome of your
It will only document the many times I’ve managed to get ahead of myself. My heart thinks it’s a
pioneer blazing trails that lead to fairytale endings, and yours thinks that I am trying to burn down the mystical forest in your mind. I’ll never understand what makes you feel you cannot trust me. You will never try to explain.