Friday, November 11, 2016

To someone I used to know

"You think you've seen her naked 
because she took her clothes off ? 
Tell me her dreams.
Tell me what breaks her heart. 
What is she passionate about and what makes her cry ? 
Tell me about her childhood.
Better yet, tell me one story about her that you are not in.
You've seen her skin , 
and you've touched her body;
but you still know as much about her as a book you once found, 
but never got around to open it."

Dominic Matthew Jackson 

When we met
I realized why storms were named after people;
because you were one.
I could hear the thunder roaring in your chest with every breath you took.
Believe me , I was prepared for a mess. 
A beautiful mess, though, 
that would reseamble rain  
 that soothes the ground when it comes after days of drought. 
or that would reseamble madness.

 Because I could see your face in every painting , behind each color and shade;
 I could hear the gravels in your voice  in every song there was on the radio.
And in every book I caught myself wrapping the meaning of the words 
around your thought. 
Because I believed  you were art.
My personal kind of poetry. 
Oh, What had you done with my sanity ! 

But there was  nothing poetic about the way you took my heart 
shook it,
unraveled it,
and tossed it; 
like there wasn't anything interesting enough for you in it.
And you weren't a song; 
but you were the sound of a heart-breaking or 
the sound of nails scraching on a chalkboard. 
You weren't just a storm, 
but a disaster
meant to discolor me. 
And I was so blind to see that you used 
"I love you" 
as an excuse 
for keep  breaking my heart.

And in the end , 
all I was left of you 
is blisters on my feet
from dancing with your ghost.
Because you were merely there for  me.

I'm finally letting all this go.
I let go of your idea. 
I swallow it and let it burn
inside me.
Until I cough its  ashes.
Until you become a story 
that doesn't make me cry anymore. 
Until I finally find the strength to 
say "goodbye"
to someone who left me 

➼This poem is devoted to someone who I loved but left everything of me untouched.And if by untouched you think just of the body, then you too don't know anything about love.