I prayed to God to send me love,
pleading that I was ready again,
that I had finally let you go.
God sent me caring, compassionate, handsome,
a man with a great family, a career, goals and dreams.
“love is that you?
you aren’t tall like him,
your face sits rounder when you are in thought,
and your jeans actually fit right.
you put ice in your coke
and don’t shake your gatorade before you take a sip.
love, I don’t think that’s you…
you like watching gameshows before bed,
you don’t complain that the shower is too hot
and you listen to your music too soft in the car.”
I prayed to God to send me love
and I realized in his response that it wasn’t love that I wanted.
it was you.
You deserve to remember me for the rest of your life
I hope that one day
when your bride is trudging down the isle,
through your apparent happiness,
I hope you think of me.
I hope you wonder where I am,
and what I’m doing.
I hope you wonder what we’d be doing,
hadn’t you left.
I hope that one day
as you eat cold pizza on a Friday night,
at the end of yet another dull week,
across the table from the same woman
who brings you no inherent happiness or excitement,
you think of me.
I hope that when you’re sitting with your fists balled up,
and you head swirling with the effects of alcohol,
beaten over divorce papers,
you remember me
and wonder where, and how, things went so awfully wrong.
Even when you are on your deathbed,
I hope that you reflect on your life, and remember my iridescence.
I hope you remember my light that shone through the cracks of your gray mind.
But most of all,
I hope you remember how I saw you naked from your pretenses and performances, and I still unconditionally loved you.
And I hope you are truly sorry.
If we move in together, my heart is still yours,
but that doesn’t mean all my belongings have to be.
Privacy is the beetle’s husk, the moon’s rind, a tulip’s pollen,
my own skin. Our two halves of a home may touch and coalesce,
but when I need my space, let me have it,
stars, black holes,…