In Thrall

You tasted my skin with the tip of your tongue and with the warm place at the end of your finger tips.
Your eyes said something along the lines of, “It’s not over yet,” and my heart beat too many times a minute.
I might not ever forget you, the way your hand fit perfectly in mine.
And how you told me that I was the warmest thing in your life.
I guess some people are just put there to show you something.
Like you showed me that everyone leaves.

Do you remember that one night?
You touched me like you were painting a picture of love in my pores.
You held me tighter than the noose that fits so snug around my neck every night as a try to fall asleep now.
And we tried to reach for the stars, tried to blow away eyelashes with wishes and hope.
And I could never quite open up to you, like you opened up to me, on that day when you let me read your poetry.
I made a lot of dumb decisions back then I guess.

I was in thrall to my emotions, to my thoughts, my beliefs.
You held your own though, twisted and morphed your life so that everything was at your whim.
And then you left me behind, moved on to bigger things.
But I, I can’t do it.
I can’t sell my soul for these dreams.
Even if I never make it, at least I’ll still have my heart.

I guess it’s really for the best though.
I was always the weakest part of you.
I want to be the girl who cries when she’s happy, and writes down reasons to be thankful when she’s sad.
Instead I cry myself to sleep at night, in my big warm bed.
While children sleep outside in the cold.
And it’s not really fair at all.

You made a promise to me.
To never leave, like the moon promised the sky one night.
And I can still hear your voice, like through shells you hear the sea.
And sometimes I think my life is just one big simile, comparing my mind to a sad love song playing in the middle of the night.
But that’s not really fair at all.
A lot of things aren’t now though.

And sometimes writing exhausts me, like a long run uphill in the rain.
And I just want to sleep and sleep and sleep, until the end of the world maybe.
But that’s not very brave of me, or realistic really.
I pieced this poem together from shreds of my heart.
Sewed it together with the stitches of my memories, pulling it tight so that you can’t tear it apart.
But that’s ironic since you’re the dye that stains the fabric of these words.

I’ve heard that if a writer falls in love with you, you’ll live forever, like Shakespeare said in a poem long ago.
But writers are sad people, they don’t trust much.
They watch their hearts and stand on guard for they know how it feels to fall.
And I, I’m not in love with you.
But I do miss you, like the trees miss their leaves in the winter.
And I want to be with you, I enjoy your company.

I was once told not to start a sentence with because and or but.
But that’s my favorite thing to do.
Just like I was told that smoking can kill you, or not to ride in cars with boys.
We broke those two rules together.
And I miss breaking rules with you.
I miss keeping you like a secret.

So I guess I’ll stop now.
But I’ll see you again, in the words I scrawl across napkins.
And in my dreams, if I can go to sleep, which may not even happen.
And I hope that the music you hear is as beautiful as the iris of your eyes.
And that you taste everything sweet, like a hunny bee.
And that God always gives you wings to fly.