Familiar respite; Reading Keats, listening to Morrissey, drowned in sadness.
Scribbling away in a battered notebook of poems about love and loss:
poems you’ve read and poems you haven’t.
You told me you pictured our future. Just weeks ago, blissful as ever.
Now you claim just friendship.
By last night you’d called me a twat. I’ve heard that before.
Those evenings, I’d sit with you and talk of how I liked you,
and you liked I.
if only we knew how it would end,
days under maroon sunsets,
a bed drenched in our happiness and musings.
now I sit listening to Deftones:
Talking with you has come to a halt,
no hugs, no claims of our affection
fuck you’re paining me,
drowned by the lost yesteryear.
One day you may sit on a hammock, your new boyfriend astride you.
Wondering whatever happened to me,
as I will you.
Did you let a potential addiction consume you?
our lives interwined for the briefest of moments.
how pleasant it was to be with you,
to call you the one I dated.
I wish these days had more time,
a chance to correct the missteps i’d made.
on a thought though maybe we’d never have shared time together,
I’d never have bumped into you.
Time wrapped us up,
the unravelling was inevitable
maybe thats why you spoke with an undercurrent of regret
for us,
we both knew,
simply letting our futility remain unspoken.
Until something cracked inside you.
My message not responded to, begs to agree.
I dont think I have it left in us to try and fix it.
Not today at least.
I coldly turn in my isolated bed.
Dreaming of you,
wishing the thousand miles didn’t exist.
so the physicality could be a warm occurence.
I still care about you,
I’m not going to forget you,
even as we fade away.
you’ve really left a mark on my life.
The days will still be stained with your scent.
For I care about you still and that pains me,
as you live onwards, without me.
Ben Brizell 