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I. If I could, I would write a beautiful poem about the loss of our innocence. I would use flattering metaphors to draw parallels between your beauty and the warmth of summer. I would liken your blonde hair to golden wheat and sparkling sand, and rhapsodize wordily about the scent of your tan skin; the turbulent storms hiding in the depths of your desert sky eyes. But heartbreak leaves me speechless, aimless in my hunt for prose. The words don’t do justice to the lump in my throat.
II. I fight to reminisce about all of the good times, but the sad truth is that our story was mostly unwritten. We were a love based on promise. Everything I miss is everything that hadn’t happened yet; all the dreams we’ll never fulfill. I miss the future us.
III. And then you dyed your hair dark. If I were a decent poet, I would have some brilliant way of pointing out the timing of our downfall; the extinguishing of our light, and the connection between the darkening of our spirits and the darkening of your flaxen hair.
IV. Dark times, indeed. You occupy space within me that sometimes feels like a vacuum. A cavern of sadness. Aware as I am that it doesn’t do to dwell, I do. I dwell there with you, in a tiny house on the beach, where we hang laundry on a line in the sunshine, and our beautiful children scamper and play with the dogs in the surf, and we collect sea shells, and make mobiles with them, and sing together, and make love.
V. It isn’t a healthy fantasy to entertain, by any means, but it’s mine, and that’s more than I can say for you.
II. I fight to reminisce about all of the good times, but the sad truth is that our story was mostly unwritten. We were a love based on promise. Everything I miss is everything that hadn’t happened yet; all the dreams we’ll never fulfill. I miss the future us.
III. And then you dyed your hair dark. If I were a decent poet, I would have some brilliant way of pointing out the timing of our downfall; the extinguishing of our light, and the connection between the darkening of our spirits and the darkening of your flaxen hair.
IV. Dark times, indeed. You occupy space within me that sometimes feels like a vacuum. A cavern of sadness. Aware as I am that it doesn’t do to dwell, I do. I dwell there with you, in a tiny house on the beach, where we hang laundry on a line in the sunshine, and our beautiful children scamper and play with the dogs in the surf, and we collect sea shells, and make mobiles with them, and sing together, and make love.
V. It isn’t a healthy fantasy to entertain, by any means, but it’s mine, and that’s more than I can say for you.
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