The Things I Carry- A poem inspired by the novel.


Stuffed in a large bag is a book.

I carry this book, and sometimes the bookmark is more intriguing the book.

 A bent picture of two young people on a date marks the pages which have and have not been read yet.

Though I carry this photo with me I can’t help to feel its insincerity.

The way I truly feel, the truth I carry hides between the pages like the photo does.

I don’t and probably never will, love the man in the picture; the one who was actually there and leaves physical proof of his presence.

 I am not interested in the presence of someone physically and because of this I carry the guilt with me. The disappointment is carried with me because I carry no emotions or attachments to the real man. I carry love for another.

But I can’t really say it’s another, but more of a ghost.

This ghost, I carry with me.

 This love is someone I had brief moments with, and these moments are now what I love.

 I carry around the feeling of moonlight on my skin  and the lightness in my heart as he drove, our lips curved at the same time singing the same lyrics;  never before has a night been this peaceful.

 I carry the aberration of a man, the fog of the unknown and the known parts of him.

He was as mysterious as the moon, intriguing and easy on the eyes.

I carry the image of how his hands gripped the wheel, how he bobbed his head, and how his lip curved in a peculiar manner when in thought.

 I can still hear his voice; neither too strong, nor too soft. His voice calmed me like a drizzle in the middle of spring.

 If he were the drizzle, I was a hurricane.

 Without him I would swirl and spiral; there was chaos and all perished without him.

I still carry him.

I carry his hopes, dreams, past, present, and future as if they are my own burden to carry.

I carry all that he is, and all that he could be, as if it was I.

I carry a love for a man tangible in body and intangible in soul. I carry all of this, all of him until I am depleted and sore that the only way I can recover is by carrying something new.

 I begin to carry a new fantasy, a new twisted memory, a new level of infatuation, and a new fantasy of us.

 All that we could have been, is heavier than what we actually are.

 And I can’t let go, or stop fantasizing about the intangible because it is as if the love I carry for him is the anchor attached the ship to the sea; the ribbon keeping the balloon from floating away, and the bridge connecting two very different cities. 

I continue to carry him despite the weight, the pain, or the fact that we don’t have a picture that I hid in my book, and that we don’t have a future.

I carry him, the idea of him because like the balloon and the boat I need something to weigh me down… something to keep me from floating away.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741