Poems

Tattoos & Memories

I stabbed a needle repeatedly over my right wrist- your favorite hand to hold. Midnight black ink swirled in a design that spelt the only word that's caused me as much joy as it has pain: your name.

Inked words never speak with the vibrations of your vocal cords but it's ironic how such a small word has lasted longer than your promise of forever ever did.

But as the years come the color fades the four letter word to an easy grey and I wonder why it doesn't leave with the memory of you.

Because I can still hear the sound of your size eleven chalk colored shoes slipping out the front door the morning of September 8th before the sun painted the sky a cream-sickle orange and the air smells like your morning coffee. And how that day I was out of my element because I was running on none of your caffeine. Even though I never have my own cup (I always said I preferred tea) I always stole some of your chestnut concoction when you pretended to look away. I guess it all started, forty days before, at a small corner cafe, when you weren't pretending to look anymore: that something, someone, else had caught your eye. But baby, your whole world could've been right in front of you if you had just opened those whiskey colored eyes.

And I waited for you to reappear, even though I witnessed you leave: left foot already on the road, the one that would take you furthest the quickest away from me. Hands occupied with a copper leather suitcase and your 'other half.' Mouth silent as the night, sewn together with your cowardliness-you couldn't even warn me with goodnight.

So I just wanted to remind you that:

The burgundy couch smells more like how I wanted you to smell-like your favorite classic books and fresh linen on the nights you came home alone- than how you ever smelt like yourself. Because every other night you reeked of cold cherry vodka and cheap perfume. You gave yourself away to girls-you didn't even have enough self respect to save yourself for a women like me.

No, you were too busy, after the day everything changed: too busy for everything; especially me. Drinking your bitter coffee, complaining about how you hated its color because it was too dark for your taste while staring straight into my eyes (you weren't talking about just coffee-you were talking about me). Honey, there was a world right in front of you but you were to naive to see.

So you left with a petite girl with eyes lighter than your favorite cup of coffee and half the maturity of me. Your left hand in her right; like how you once held me. And so Im telling you to never come back, unless you plan on taking these tattooed memories with you when you leave like you always will: before the cream-sickle sunrises and my morning tea.