strange

It's a very strange feeling.

I'm not sure if even my best poetry

could begin to chip away at the iceberg of explanations.

It's seeing a picture of you, smiling, and smiling back,

as if that was your face lighting up for me.

It's listening to your song, and remembering how your body moved

when you played,

not how your body moved

around me.

It's hearing about the amazing things your hands have made,

and not thinking about the way your hands felt

on my skin.

It's not forgetting, all those memories are there and safe

tucked away where I can't erase.

It's not moving on, it's accepting

I love you, 

but I am not in love with you.

I care about you, but I will never go so far as to touch you

to let you know.

Of course, I'll never know how it is for you,

but I'd like to think you are aware of me too,

like two people going for a high five

but missing each other on purpose

because the pain of that loud clap

isn't really worth it.


But then, maybe I'm just delusional.

It's a very strange feeling indeed.

The End

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