love letters to the lost

My first lil Canva attempt!

That is an amazing Canva creation I love the essence of this theme so far and I am excited to see the rest!

Izzy


In these lonely days,
I start to think of you as a friend.
Best friend, I call you, my girl.

You’ll go anywhere with me.

You let me listen to my favorite music,
loud as I want, roll the windows down and
sing.
You never tell me no.

We tackle the day together:
trudging through chores and
wrestling work. You stand ready
to wing me away when
things get awkward,
when interviews go sideways.

When I cry all the way home.

Lithe between the lanes,
headlights in the rain.

When you get hit,
I’m the one who screams.


It’s too soon to say
goodbye.

Spoiler

To be very clear, IZZY IS MY CAR. XD This is not a person! I got hit on the road today and am safe and well, my car is bruised but drivable. It was scary and sad, but hopefully everything will be ok and this won't be an actual goodbye!!! (I think I just jinxed myself real hard)

First colleague, first friend


Somehow, I’m left here,
where you were meant to be.

They reassure me that
you’ll always come home again,

but I don’t know if
I’ll still be here when you do.

It’s not my home, after all.


Wherever you are,
light and laughter follow.

They must be headed to New York,
then, trailing the roads you drive,

coast to coast in an RV,
music and dogs and sunshine.

Here, the office runs a bit slower,
the city dims just a little. Empties.


I don’t suppose that friendly love
could ever trump your romance;

I wish it would.

I’d bake you banana bread every day,
if you would stay.

I know you need to follow your heart.
I just wish you could follow it

here.

Spoiler

Thanks, @dissonance! LOL as I am about to dump even more bittersweet into this thread XD

Long-distance


I dreamed about the Rachmaninov concerto last night.

I found the video you stored on my laptop,
back in the early days, and now I can’t stop
watching you play.

Your hands like birds across the keys.
Your stage presence, strutting across.
You owned it.

I fell in love with a pianist,
but you left me as a mathematician.

At some indescribable point,
your shoulders began to slump
after performances. Your stride
began to falter, your steps a sigh.

The anxiety ravaged you, and sometimes
I think it clutches you still.
I know that I’m still in its claws
every time I see you seize up in panic.

I tell you about the dream, about the video.
“I miss the old you,” I admit.
“I’m still me,” you say.

But “you” is being deconstructed
every week you stay
away.

From music to math, west coast to east.
You’ve traded old clothes for new fashion,
old loneliness for new friends.

I am not a part of your new-found
enthusiasm for life, this world you’ve
begun to build for yourself.

Sometimes,
I think you’ve gone somewhere
I can’t follow, and I’m not talking about
Virginia.

OOF! This last poem has a few absolutely devastating lines -

I fell in love with a pianist,
but you left me as a mathematician.

The anxiety ravaged you, and sometimes
I think it clutches you still.
I know that I’m still in its claws
every time I see you seize up in panic.

I tell you about the dream, about the video.
“I miss the old you,” I admit.
“I’m still me,” you say.

Love the back and forth; it feels left in the past, but also ruminated over. Very good theme for a thread too writing about things / people / places that have been lost. To no surprise I am enjoying your thread Que!

Spoiler

Aww thanks alliyah! That's been my favorite so far too. <3 <3

on the road to reborn


no one tells you that resurrection
is slow, tedious even.

it’s not a glorious rebirth from the ashes
but a gradual pushing up
of crocuses from the soil,
learning to breathe
over & over again.

without a face,
without a voice,
we reach for each other.

i haven’t forgotten the snow
that withered us, the cold
between us.

the space between the text,
the time: we’ve forgotten friendship.

let the roots regrow,
i tell myself; no matter if
she leaves again. just follow her lead
& hope it brings us
back under a tender sun.

in months, in years,
we’ll bud again.

no one tells you that resurrection
is slow, tedious even.

it’s not a glorious rebirth from the ashes
but a gradual pushing up
of crocuses from the soil,
learning to breathe
over & over again.

HEY. STOP SMACKING ME IN THE FACE.

But no, seriously, that last poem of yours is definitely my favorite so far. ^^

Spoiler

Thank you, Snoink! Tbh I'm not sure if the rest of the poem lived up to those two stanzas because I liked them a lot as well... but thank you so much!

Far from home


If I knocked on your door
one late cicada-summer afternoon
would you take me back?

I’m older now, changed states, license plates,
shucked childhood from me
like an ear of corn.

But I am yours.

Would you still recognize me?
Or did the years I spent longing to leave
mark me as a traitor, even then?
Spray-painted to be struck down
like the ash trees. Prevent the spread
of my disloyalty.

Do I still belong there?
And do I even want to?

I know nothing about the place
that bore me, because it bored me.

My heartrate as flat as the highways, the skyline;
but prairies grow back greener after fire
and now that I’ve gone, a beat is starting again,
fickle and erratic.

It sounds like ill-i-nois illi-nois
illllllll-inois.

Humidify me:
Smash me into your crushed-limestone paths,
spin me into the glint of the sun
off of distant sky-scrapers.

Maybe then
it will be home.

Spoiler

Thank you, Quill and LuminescentAnt!! <3 <3 I really appreciate you guys reading and commenting. I'm glad you liked my little hometown poem. I was digging through all of my favorite Midwest imagery, as you can tell!

An Ache


I’ve started wearing pink again, like I haven’t since I was a little girl.
When I look in the mirror, it’s your cheekbones, Mom, it’s your hands when I bake.
Dad, you are in every detail, when I need things just so; it’s your books I read.

The days I work, the evenings I come home to dishes, laundry, life
I think of every dinner you made me, the days you bugged me to clean my room,
tried to get me to help with the dishes, in the kitchen.
And there’s an ache that won’t leave, remembering my dismissals and sighs,
my passive replies, the time I spent shut in my room.

I think maybe the afternoons you’d spend on the couch
together with books and the stereo on loud, you were just carving
a sliver of calm for yourselves.

I hope you hear it in my voice over the crackle of the phone line,
how when I say “I love you,” I mean it more.
I don’t know how else to show you that I understand now.
That I’m grateful.

I spent so long trying to be your opposite, but look at me now.
I think I am your daughter, in every way, in all ways.
And I hope you will always be my parents,
though I know too much now not to worry
that I will lose you, too.

So tell me all your stories again, and this time I’ll keep them in my heart.
Tell me the advice I didn’t listen to when I was younger: I’m ready to follow it now.

Let me come home to your arms
for as long as I still can.

This is the good stuff!!!

Spoiler

Thanks, Rook! You are one of my favorite poets <3

Open | Closed


Another month, November,
is knocking at the door.

Who am I tonight?

A lover, or betrayer?
I’ve lost the tender heart of our soft April days;
will your jokes provoke, tonight, or charm?
Will we speak as friends or strangers?
Will I love you more or leave you at last?

Am I comforted or plagued by these thoughts,
by all the others in my heart?
Am I at peace now, with my place here,
or will the sound of rain on the rooftops
swallow me in nostalgia?

Am I a child tonight, wrapped in blankets of innocence,
or am I a cynic who will take out the trash after dark?
Is it the savvy reporter or sad poet who writes,
and either way, why won’t the words come out right?

Do I take the time to meditate and pray
or do I sink into sleep, let my body melt
and save salvation for another day?

And when I wake tomorrow—
will I be different once again?

November’s knocking at the door.

Who will answer?

Who am I?