The last poem I'll write about you

Memories frozen in amber

are dropped on my doorstep like a cruel present--

your freckles and your smile and your green eyes like grass and summer leaves,

that nickname nobody had ever called me

before you,

how I cried into your shoulder the last day

like the world was going to end.

You said you weren't coming back, and it hurt--

an unknowable ache that wedged itself deep within me for eleven months,

eleven months of writing poems and dreaming dreams

about you,

the best friend I thought I'd only ever meet again within my own mind.

And now I almost wish that had been true

because nothing could hurt worse than

watching your beautiful green eyes skim over me that June 25th

just as I was about to say how much I'd missed you

but the words died in my throat as I watched you walk away

and began to wonder if you were a ghost after all,

not the magical girl from a summer past.

You left me a dreamer with mushroom earrings and Nirvana T-shirts

and returned

a faker, coated in concealer and lies.

(I saw right through you, but most people didn't.)

This version of you never told me I was amazing one periwinkle evening on the Big Top,

never walked with me to the dining hall or called me by that nickname,

never said It's all good with a smile strong enough to part the clouds.

This version of you was too good for me, I guess,

or just didn't care,

even though you used to care about me

a whole lot,

or at least I cared about you.

But the image I had of you in my mind

has cracks running through the center

since you're not who you used to be, 

and I don't know when you'll be her again.

So I must say goodbye.



Because this, I promise,

is the last poem I'll write about you.

star

NH

15 years old

More by star

  • figures of the night

    we sat and imagined fireflies

    flitting between the tops of the RVs

    as the sun disappeared into muggy,

    illicit sludge. we realized we both liked

     the sticky-sweet taste of summer

  • The sun

    you're not

    leaving yet. no,

    i'll glue your limbs to the pavement,

    lower your waving hand,

    tell you

    something to make your eyes crinkle

    again.

    again,

    again,

    again.