It’s getting colder with each passing day.
I make my bed with blankets piled high,
trade bright pink sheets for muted, darker shades,
the heated mattress pad helps me get by.
Yet while I built my hibernation nest,
the strangest reflex caught me by surprise.
While tucking in the covers with the rest,
I startled when I realized that my eyes…
They’d flitted t’where the photo used to stand.
of me and him. it was a goofy shot.
I used to glance at it and feel so grand,
I’d smile at the moment that was caught…
the picture’s not stood there for o’er two months.
it’s funny that I looked for it this once.
Background: I dated the same fellow from May-August 2010 and June-September 2011. Obviously I didn’t “move on” from the breakup too well the first time around.
I’m trying very hard to just move on:
convince myself that he’ll stay in my past,
convince myself that he is really gone,
convince myself that our love couldn’t last.
I’m doing so much better than last year,
I got the closure that our first split lacked.
And now I finally can stand to hear
we really have no future. That’s a fact.
But it’s so difficult to let it go;
I get so sentimental and uptight.
I had such expectations - even so,
I must admit, the breakup, it was right.
And life goes on - what more is there to say?
I’ll live to learn to love another day.
I miss him so much that I see his face—
a visitor at church I swear’s his twin.
From perched up in the loft I gaze and gaze,
and wonder what the future could have been.
If, rather than this guy, out there was him,
that would have changed things in a major way.
Church-going by my side, and singing hymns,
our bond together would’ve had more weight.
Compatibilities? We had a bunch,
our chemistry, and humor, smarts and such.
But all along I kind of had a hunch
that when it came to big stuff…not so much.
He has his dreams, and different are mine.
If we’re not a couple, I guess that’s fine.
hey, I’m writing in third-person instead of second/to him! that’s progress, right? and I apologize for the meter fail in the couplet; I just like it as is too much to rewrite it!
It’s six weeks out, and I don’t cry as much,
e’en when I stop and focus on my loss.
I lost your love, your face, your voice, your touch;
a multitude of dreams I’ve had to toss.
Six weeks and still I can’t escape the thoughts
that haunt me right before I go to bed.
What-iffing of “our” future? I do lots.
I cannot get this dream out of my head.
I really miss my best friend, six weeks out,
and talking for an hour every day.
Not easily replaced, so I’ll just pout.
You always knew exactly what to say.
Six weeks have passed and I cannot move on.
I really can’t believe that you are gone.
umm…apparently I have absolutely nothing else to write about besides the same ol’ same ol’, and that one day I wrote about the weather. What’s fun with this one, though, is that I went to write in my journal last night, fully intending to write prose, wrote that first line, realized it was in meter, and went ahead and banged this out quicker than any of my earlier sonnets.
Not horribly depressed, just kind of bummed
as winter dawns and holidays ensue.
'Cause I'd been looking forward to the fun
of spending every holiday with you.
Thanksgiving with your parents the day of,
and the chaos of my fam’ly’s Saturday.
I couldn’t wait to let you see the love
of such a big extended family.
And Christmas, oh, then Christmas by your side—
and I was so excited I could burst.
From staying cozy cuddled up inside,
to celebrating mist’ltoe, for a first.
I wish so many things, regarding us.
I would have loved to share a first Christmas.
A dark and stormy night—you know the rest.
I lie in bed awake amidst the gloom.
I need to get this burden off my chest,
just wishing I could see you sometime soon.
I would have called, I really wanted to—
communication can’t be such a sin.
And I remember last year you were blue,
like, when I failed to mention I’d be in.
But what would be the point, I have to ask,
of telling you when I would be in town?
When I’m not ready yet, I’d have to pass,
so it really would be moot if I’m around.
I didn’t mean to hurt you any more,
but I don’t want to mess up our rapport.
My heart was set on this—I thought I knew
just what the future had in store for us.
It’s written in the heavens, me and you,
together for forever, with no fuss.
I’d move to Kansas City, and move in,
I’d be around for every day and night.
I’d be there for you through the thick and thin,
there was no “what if,” “maybe” or a “might.”
and now I have to let it go, move on.
I don’t adapt well to a change of plan.
My future’s now a hollow, gaping maw—
I’ve never felt so empty or so bland.
(I’d planned out the whole future of my life—
I really thought that I would be your wife.)