Why Are We So Delicate?

Your lips are tender to the touch,

tender to the touch.

As if silence amounted to lust

and sound to “not enough”.

 

Skin on skin but not nearly close enough.

 

I want to run my finger over your thumb,

over your thumb.

And right over the mistakes I made so stupidly blinded

by the clouded sun.

 

We sat in a coffee shop and it started to rain.

You ran outside and threw your arms up.

It’s that which I’m remembering

when you ask about the pain.

 

I’m also remembering how you made the nighttime seem light.

And much less long,

I’m remembering how you made the daydreaming turn to song.

 

I’m remembering how you would always make tea,

or rest your hand on my knee.

You used to love that you could just be.

 

Falling asleep on the phone doesn’t feel like closure.

Falling in love, drunken yet you’re sober.

 

I say “give me another chance”.

You close your eyes slowly,

I’ve started blinking faster now.

But I don’t miss your glance.

 

It’s not missing who you used to be,

it’s missing that you used to rest your hand on my knee.

 

Or that you’d always make tea.

 

Your sighs sound sad.

We’re so delicate.

 

Writing poems in my head.


Searching for “I love you” in the words unsaid.





 

◄ the red poem

the parting poem ►

Comments

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Douglas MacGowan

Tue 6th Nov 2018 17:52

A charming poem about the enduring strength of love.

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