When I first met you, you had a smile like the envelope that swallowed my last love letter. I was not ready to love again, I was not willing to trust, again. But Cupid is irresponsible. Cupid has come to me explaining that not all loves are meant for eternity, that my clumsy heart has fallen over again, and again, to bring me something- and this time it’s brought me you. When I met you, I believed that it was better to be silent than to be silenced by any man. Now you have taught me that some men are too afraid to stop acting like boys. That fear is not only found in a stammer but in a hard jaw, and in passive aggressive behavior. I wish you had told me what it was that you were so afraid of.
Maybe it would have changed my mind.
You see for too long I have walked this Earth worrying about what the ground might think of my footsteps. Lost in the path of mixed emotions I do not feel entitled to. Too often I find myself letting the words you do not say affect me. I cannot recognize the look in your eyes after all this time, I thought I would know them by now- but I have learned, you are still a stranger to me.
How can I realize so late that you are so many things I have never anticipated, things I have run from since the beginning. I am tired of running, but I still do not like them. I hate myself for standing there and listening as you say you have denied a visit to a patient who had attempted suicide, I hate myself for standing there glaring as you try to reason your distaste in people who are overweight. I hate myself for feeling so insecure under your gaze- I am tire of feeling as if I am everything you keep saying you dislike.
Love, I wish it were still easy to say I love you. but these days I can feel my heart bend, my chest tighten, I can feel my eyes tears as I know I do not want to say them. The more I do the more I know it’s true- and that hurts the most.
I want to believe you, and everything I had believed I saw in you when I allowed myself to meet the cupid bow of your lips. I am tired of that cherub using me as target practice; what if I do not want to be in love anymore? What if I am afraid I do not really know you? It does not really matter now does it, too much time has passed, too much life has left my eyes. I’m still learning how to put it back.
What did I look like when you first saw me? What did you see?
What do you see in me now? I want to hand you the box of butterflies I felt when you looked at me that time, I want every poem I’ve written for you smell like ash. I’ve been writing this poem for so long I still can’t figure out if it’s suppose to be an apology, but I guess I’ll say anyways- I’m sorry.