On the first warm day before spring, I walked down to the river. I felt funny carrying two books of poetry and a journal. Climbing hills in black jeans and little gray shoes. I found a clearing shaped like a circle, where I stitched myself back together.
You walked down to the river too, but you went a different way.
When I told you that I considered you a beam of light, you said nothing. I only wanted to be honest about loving you.
We could be good for days, we could be good for days
Do you remember driving me home from the mountains while I was falling apart and asking me not to put on Waxahatchee?
Did I ever tell you that I was crushed?
When I listen to Waxahatchee, I feel a little less strange. Less washed up.
I am listening to Ivy Tripp as a new person. Sometimes I still feel nostalgic for mornings spent in slow motion. Sometimes I still dream of living inside a photograph taken in summertime, all angels and water and green. Sometimes I still wonder if I am a ghost.
Mostly, I am blooming and ascending.
Maybe you got your head caught in a ditch last night
You’ve always had your heart set on restlessness. And you’ve always been more explosive than me, or at least more prone to reinvention.
And I know this about you. I never meant to pin you down, just to prove that I’m right.
Now I wonder if you’re burning me out, because I wanted everything.
Love requires so much space.
Missing you is a feeling that comes and goes like a breeze.
And I’ll try to preserve the routine, I don’t want to discuss what it means
My best friend and I painted our nails gold and wore our favorite outfits and danced to all the prettiest bangers we know. I began to feel at home inside my own head. This is called healing.
Running water, running
I wake up early to fill the void with flowers and light.
Still, can I keep just one place? A beach in North Carolina right after sunrise where we are the only ones awake for miles. Or the twin bed in my old bedroom in Virginia. Or an orchard.
I think I kissed you first
I think I’m better off here in our old kitchen, looking out at a rare tree while water boils.
You ask a lot, she said go ahead, he said go ahead, I say go ahead
I might drive to Alabama. Alone, guided by a book of waterfalls.
And after that I’ll leave for Massachusetts. I might not see you again for a long time.
I know that I am fading from your memory, though I wonder what part of me might stay.
But still, I’m better off.