First Time
August 4th, 2016
This is the first time in a long time
that I have wanted to write love poems
that don't revolve around evenings spent cupping starlight in
already repetitive fingers.
This is the first time in a long time that I
have wanted to write about
scorching July afternoons and
listening to the same cheesy pop songs on endless loops instead of
the same melody we once tapped out on
faded jeans,
and this is the first time in a long time that you are
not in the back of my mind as
fragments of poetry sift through my brain.
For once,
I am not writing with you as the intended audience.
I am not writing this for or about you,
I am not writing to forget, to relieve, or to move forward.
For the first time in a long time,
this poem has absolutely nothing to do with you.
This is the first time in a long time that I have wanted to write about heat,
vitality,
humidity,
something other than the desolation, emptiness, and coldness
I’ve come to associate with your being and your memory.
And instead of describing picket fences and empty, ghostly streets painted in celestial hues by an autumn moon,
images of spiraling cigarette smoke
mingling with the bright August light that streams in from cracked, industrial doors and
descriptions of watery windows reflecting black sheep collections of forgotten thrift store readings
form a semblance of what could potentially be
a poem worth reading.
Because,
for the first time in a long time,
instead of writing about frigid snowflakes slapping against dusted windows and tree branches
slowly losing their wasted away leaves,
I want to write about the way
the sun scorches the streets outside each evening as I sweep between empty cases,
and how the skylight over me lets in a semblance of the summer raging outside each afternoon.
I want to write about music screaming from behind wooden swinging doors,
about easy smiles crossing wrinkled faces,
about how bleach-covered jeans and black caps never seemed so inviting.
This is the first time in a long time
that I have looked at these empty pages
without thinking about you or the way
you slowly unraveled my every seam,
laughing as I became an undone being.
This is the first time in a long time
that I have remembered what it means to be loved equally,
unconditionally,
fearlessly.
Because,
for the first time in a long time,
I think I remember what it means to believe
in the idea of a new beginning.
August 4th, 2016
This is the first time in a long time
that I have wanted to write love poems
that don't revolve around evenings spent cupping starlight in
already repetitive fingers.
This is the first time in a long time that I
have wanted to write about
scorching July afternoons and
listening to the same cheesy pop songs on endless loops instead of
the same melody we once tapped out on
faded jeans,
and this is the first time in a long time that you are
not in the back of my mind as
fragments of poetry sift through my brain.
For once,
I am not writing with you as the intended audience.
I am not writing this for or about you,
I am not writing to forget, to relieve, or to move forward.
For the first time in a long time,
this poem has absolutely nothing to do with you.
This is the first time in a long time that I have wanted to write about heat,
vitality,
humidity,
something other than the desolation, emptiness, and coldness
I’ve come to associate with your being and your memory.
And instead of describing picket fences and empty, ghostly streets painted in celestial hues by an autumn moon,
images of spiraling cigarette smoke
mingling with the bright August light that streams in from cracked, industrial doors and
descriptions of watery windows reflecting black sheep collections of forgotten thrift store readings
form a semblance of what could potentially be
a poem worth reading.
Because,
for the first time in a long time,
instead of writing about frigid snowflakes slapping against dusted windows and tree branches
slowly losing their wasted away leaves,
I want to write about the way
the sun scorches the streets outside each evening as I sweep between empty cases,
and how the skylight over me lets in a semblance of the summer raging outside each afternoon.
I want to write about music screaming from behind wooden swinging doors,
about easy smiles crossing wrinkled faces,
about how bleach-covered jeans and black caps never seemed so inviting.
This is the first time in a long time
that I have looked at these empty pages
without thinking about you or the way
you slowly unraveled my every seam,
laughing as I became an undone being.
This is the first time in a long time
that I have remembered what it means to be loved equally,
unconditionally,
fearlessly.
Because,
for the first time in a long time,
I think I remember what it means to believe
in the idea of a new beginning.