deepundergroundpoetry.com

a strange kind of nostalgia

 I miss how we used to tear
each other apart just to feel something
my body hunched over in the back
of a car while I tried to hold
my insides together
empty as they were
the memory of your exhaled breath
stealing every one I inhaled

He is the silence to your apocalypse
he wonít tear me apart with words
our fists clenched like waiting storms
that never release the rage inside
but sometimes crackle
with things unspoken

I donít tell him I loved you
I donít tell you I think heís the wrong one
(because I still secretly wonder if youíre the right)

I donít tell you I want your storm
raging down upon me
ripping me into life
and breath and passion

Weíre not barbwire fingertips
and acid tongues leaving burns and open wounds
that will never quite heal anymore

Weíre back up at the fucking stop sign
cause there is oncoming traffic
and we canít live like car crashes waiting to happen

Sometimes I miss the strange way we lived
and died at armís length
wrapped in the endlessness of time
your hands inside my soul
your story on your lips
but never on my mouth
and never with a promise
to stay longer than tomorrow

I want to kiss his lips
and pretend that heís you

But heís not
and the reasons Iím free
are the reasons Iím trapped
between unforgotten yesterdays
and uncertain tomorrows

So I wait between the silence
of his absence and my secrets
and wonder if Iíll ever have
the courage to ask you
for a second chance

© Indie Adams 2016
Indie
Written by Indie (Miss Indie)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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