Static Love

It was always midnight when we loved,
and daylight hid us away
as if we were damned to stay sheilded from view.
I never asked you if you were okay with that,
but I think you were.

You did always come back.

And you would stay until exhaustion crippled you,
and even then you would still try to grasp on
to every last breath, every last word
that pierced the silence that riddled my room
as the streetlights melted down the walls
and I stared into a bright screen.

And you would talk for all the time before that,
about everything wonderful and full of woe,
sublime and subdued,
passion-filled, sweet as summer rain,
solmenity-laced, bitter as waking up the next morning
to not you - to only bright blue.

And god did I listen.
I savored every last syllable you muttered out,
every last laught sent bolts of joy throughout my being,
every last 'I love you' made me recede into the warmth of my bed
and wish that I had a record of your voice
that would spin forever more.

But then the morning did come.

You moved on to a new life, somewhere you felt more comfortable.
I was left with nothing but an empty box,
and a room where the lights never illuminated the room
in a gilded grandeur - now just yellow.
And I always hated yellow.

I never hated it as much until you left.

I learned, however, to savor the memories of gold,
that every night it was not the universe, but us,
that sent the sun over the horizon, and thrusted
the moon into the night sky so that we could wish ourselves
a happy midnight, and pray for more to come.

I learned that every 'I love you' meant so much,
but every night when you would fall asleep meant so much more
because Love is not simply the exclamations that caress the ear,
it is the silence in-between each laugh,
each word crafted in intrigue,
each breath as you finally fell asleep,
everything that never saw the light of night,
but rung as loudly as ever.

This poem is about: 
Me

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