at the age of twenty-four, i will stand at the foot of my bed and stare down at the single imprint in the mattress 

       where my body laid for four days. 


as a profession of loneliness,

my sheets will be tangled in knots from where i tossed and turned all night 

        all week 

                               on the idea that my life would be like this forever.


days in eternity 

where the sunrise at daybreak didn’t indicate the finding of a new light 

                but rather the finding of yet another day alone 

a day of frivolous sentiments and flipping through boxes that after eight years shouldn’t hurt me anymore. 


i’m still only seventeen

                              but i feel like this has already happened. 

they said that true love would come naturally but they didn’t say it would leave forever as easily. 

leaving a romantic at heart to be a wreck at life 

haphazardly stumbling into dusty photo albums looking for an answer. 

                       i’m afraid-  

                       i’m afraid it will be like this forever. 

                                                                           and i’m only seventeen. 


my greatest fear used to be losing you 

but now i’m sure it’s that i’ll never find you again 

                  and i guess i have to make peace with that before my last day at twenty-three 

                            because apparently arbitrary deadlines give me a purpose laden with unintended anxiety. 

and i’m working on being okay with being alone by filling my head with static tunes and calling it progress. 

because twenty-four is coming before i’d like to admit it and i don’t even know what this number means. 


i sat on the reality of you leaving for twenty-four months- two years. 

and my recovery is          this        right           here. 

this       right      now. 

because i haven’t overcome my fears yet. 

because i haven’t learned to make peace with them. with the idea of you being gone. 

                      but i’ve been able to live with it for this long. 

                                          and so what if it takes more than twenty-four? 

                               i’m ready. 


i will untie those sheets and fold them away nicely before i have the chance to drown in them. 

i will sleep at different corners of the bed to make it feel fuller. 

                                          and so what if it doesn’t work? 

                              trying is what makes love possible, right? 

This poem is about: 



Hey there plenty of fish just move on even though this poem is awesomely creative and superbly expressed wowww. 17 is just too young to be in love and out already! That's why in our culture they discourage love until much later after 19 usually. Young love is fickle mostly.  Kudos for this superb poem.

I see comments are not common here, but interaction is good for the human touch in this cold world.  Pleez do comment/ review my newest poem too.

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