Records and Rain

Your voice still lays in my mind
like a bedded lover.
And each time I recall it,
I find something else.
Deeper
meanings.
How I wanted to believe you
when you said
“You’re beautiful.”
When you said
“You matter.”
When you said

“I love you.”

But I can’t.
So I’ll pace this kitchen floor
for the thousandth time today
and eat Kix cereal
because it reminds me of a time
when love was simpler
than this.
And there was more to life
than death.
When people actually meant it
when they said
“You’re beautiful.”
When they said
“You matter.”
When they said

“I love you.”

Give me a moment of peace.
A second of something
real
to hold onto.
Because I’ve grown.
And I know that the things we cling to as kids
are no more than imagined whispers.
And I’m sick of these murky waters
of doubt.
And the cynical voices
of falsehood
that tease me
“You’re beautiful.”
That tease me
“You matter.”
That tease me

“I love you.”

Do you remember that night?
When the glare of the alarm clock
on the bedside table
watched
as you kissed me?
And the rain that
pounded
the window outside
matched the beat of that
Pink Floyd song
that was playing
softly
in the background?
And the only things I heard were
guitars
and your voice
saying
“You’re beautiful.”
Saying
“You matter.”
Saying

“I love you.”

But that night is gone
and my bowl is empty.
I’ve moved from the kitchen
to the bed.
And the clock
just blinks.
Devoid
of tell-able time.
And the rain is a
Drizzle.
Barely even wet.
There’s a record on.
And guess what song
is playing
softly
in the background?
I replace the lyrics
so that all I hear are
guitars
and a voice
singing
“You’re beautiful.”
Singing
“You matter.”
Singing

“I love you.”