If my heart is poetry,
then the last love poem I wrote is a crumpled up memo and you
are a journal I was hoping to fill my days with
until the space ran out.
But I must have cramped my writing hand because
even muscle memory has forgotten how I used it.
Were you thinking of her then too?
When I flipped through your pages,
did you remember her fingerprints on your surface edges?
Was I just a creased corner pointing backwards for the place you saved for her?
And when she broke your heart,
did she also crack your spine so you would always fall in her direction?
I admit I never left you open on my nightstand,
but I guess you were already stolen in someone else’s secrets and affection.
There’s a reason I stopped using notebooks and pencils;
at least the backspace is relatively painless
when you enter into a document knowing it’s only temporary.
And no, I’m not afraid of her ink stains,
just my habit to Rorschach their meaning into tea leaf and palm-line predictions,
reminders that all stories must have endings
because I will always believe in the portraits of disaster,
even if it never begins.
So when did I become so bold that I scrawled my thoughts in marker,
hoping they would bleed through your body and become permanent.
But you marked hers first.
Said you would always be her diary,
and I guess that makes me an entry on an off day.
But see, I don’t care how many libraries there are in the world;
I’d still look for you when I can’t find the right synonym for beautiful
when other men touch me I am searching for your plot lines.
Your papercuts are the first thing I was willing to bleed for in so long.
But i’m not blaming you.
I’m blaming me.
Because if my heart is poetry,
then I only want you to remember the lines about love
lingering like my scent on your t-shirt
that night you asked me over,
even though we both had to get up early the next morning.
Do you remember?
You said you’d put it on later just to be close to me again.
But I’m not trying to be more than your friend,
nor am I postponing an inevitable end.
After all, they say if you truly love someone,
let them go.
So please know that I’m willing to paper crane all your pages
until they papyrus the sky
like the stars we’ll finally discover when they turn out all the lights.
And I may never be the one who sleeps next to you at night,
but at least let me be the love letter tucked beneath your pillowcase
to remind you that no matter what,
you will always, always be worth the read, my love.
