Poetry is more than escapism. It is a companion.
The sort of companion who records your story, and relays it to anyone willing to relive it.
My poetry has witnessed my journey in search of a new realm and beckons you to experience it with me.
...
I was stupid. Young, and eager to be loved. To have been wanted and you were ready to want me. So as I clung to your hand, under the desk In a room filled with others, like members of an open grave, ready to be covered. I held and looked you in the eyes. Waiting for you to tell me that we would be the forever and the unending, that my quest to belong ended here with you. And I watched your lips as they parted. I remember exactly how your tongue formed the word, how nonchalant the air carried your voice. As I held. Patient, yet eager. Desperate, yet certain. Ready to be loved, yet unloved.
"No."
And that reminded me of the second day in the bathroom stall, where my fantasies took place for months, where I clung to you as helplessly as I clung to your hand now, that we never kissed.
But I wish we had.
author's note —
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