from the 5-year bitter wait
- Athena Charanne R. Presto
- Sep 15, 2015
- 1 min read
My poems span five years from when I loved you while you spin yourself
together in a vain attempt for direction. I keep you in words when the
only thing that warms my bed is the fire of pleasure from the impossibility
of us. Old friend, I missed you, but I do not want to be your forever. I want
to be your almost; the coin you let slip that made you scramble on your
knees searching madly to have again, but in the end never finding what
you lost. I’ll be the forgotten photograph you tucked in your Algebra book
which slipped out by mistake, drowning you in desperation as you traced
the outline of my lips with yours, unmindful of the years that turned my
photo into sepia. I wanna be the story behind your wedding song, and I
wanna be the face you see when you climax on your wife. I look forward
to the time you realize I’m the only one who touched you with letters
when you pull out an old envelope I sent you long ago, and frame my
handwriting with your tears. I wanna be your most vicious What If.
Or maybe even worse.
I’ll be your deepest regret, the one who leaves you with an ocean for a
hole – the one you will never encounter, no matter how long you sailed.
