I miss writing like I’d miss an old lover
Dumped, by the side of the road
I miss language like a country abandoned
But still longed for,
Though the bridges have burned.
Our paths cross, tentative, and awkward:
“How’ve you been… Oh? That’s nice…”
Just a fraction of what is there to be said
The easiest way to exist –
Between the shouts,
And the silence.

I don’t know what you want me to say –
That I gave up,
Because I wasn’t enough for you?
That the beauty of all you could be
Shone a cold light on all of my failings?
You think it’s easier to walk away?
When all that you are is all I ever wanted?
You think I don’t hate myself every day
For not being strong enough
To see it through, to submit to the fire
And come out a diamond?

Remember the party
Where everyone showed up unannounced,
So beautiful in feathers and furs
And there’s me in old jeans,
My hair unbrushed,
Just happy to see you happy.

And how your friends laughed
When I poured them wine
With names I couldn’t pronounce.
The brie tasted like ash in my mouth
As I stood quaking in the middle of the crowd
To recite The Jabberwock.

And you sitting there, toothed a smile
Tinged with sadness because you knew
That was all I could ever offer
And you wanted me to be more
So that we could be more together…
You knew,
And I knew that you knew.

So I packed my words in a velvet-lined trunk,
Put the key in my top drawer with all my other secret things.
I packed language away in a silver box;
I set you free to be all that you could be
In someone else’s arms
On someone else’s lips.
I smile and pretend that it’s all okay,
That I don’t miss you every day
That we were just too different and it’s better
That we keep to our proper stations.

But oh how I miss the exhilaration of a properly turned phrase
The vernacular coitus of prose and rhythm
I come to your shows and watch you owning the stage
And I can feel every line as it lifts off the page and for a second
I remember with burning jealousy
What it feels like to be Icarus,
Soaring above the crowd.

Sometimes I think we could try again,
Sometimes I buy blank notebooks and fresh pens
Thinking it will lure you back into my world.
But the notebooks sit blank,
The dream-thoughts fade in the morning
The stories get lost in the commute and the bustle.

When I am old, I know
You’ll come to my bedside
You’ll take my hand – a roadmap
Of wrinkles upon wrinkles
Yet you will still be young, shining,
Perfect and new.
And I –
I will be unable to hate you,
I will clasp you to my bosom and beg
For just one more story
Of “Once Upon A Time”.