I.D.M.

Years before you I had a gaping hole in my chest
the size of this world, and possibly the next.
I bandaged the wound up nice and tight,
as to prevent parts of me from falling away.
It only worked so much.

Then that year you arrived,
and I couldn’t breathe.
I was drawn to you like a moth to a flame;
alive, with wings spread, fluttering around your radiance.
You, you, you.
The boy who mended me.
That’s all I knew.

We came together with a force
that I swore would tilt this earth.
Our waves crashed on the shore in unison;
we drew back like the tide in sync.
I thought I found the very meaning of life.
I would laugh at those poor souls
singing of a love lost, or of never loving at all.
"What do they know?" I’d ask aloud.
Followed up by, “How lucky I am."

At night I fell asleep with the spirit of you,
holding me tightly by the waist.
I would pretend that I could count the freckles
seemingly drizzled onto your milky skin.
We would meet up in dreams,
the two of us mischief makers at our best.
I was Bonnie, you were Clyde.
Nothing stood in our way.
We were gods.

In October I was torn from you
by a separate entity.
My words, nor the shaking of my body
did not render you to pause.
I was ripped from you,
and the bleeding was immense.
The bandage was soaked through with crimson.
I had wished for death instead.

We live on as two now,
never talking, never seeing, never knowing.
But I can still sense you from time to time;
you must have left a fragment of you
somewhere deep within me.
I carry that around, though it sears.

I play our memories like movies
trapped inside of my head.
We have twenty-four hour viewings here.
Pausing, rewinding.
Your voice, your smile, your hands;
All of them are here in clarity.

I wake up in an empty bed,
with an empty phone,
and an empty heart.
Good morning?
No, never a good morning,
nor a good night.
Goodbye, instead.