In my last year of high school, our English teacher told us that poetry rings true
in spite of its vagueness.
It’s the sporadic phrases that lodge themselves in the crevices of our brains
I think of her words often:
Language is only a medium.
It felt something like a breakthrough then.
On days like this, my love, I go back to that day last summer that changed everything.
The sun setting on the beach we stumbled across, so by chance as if it were meant for us to find. Our stunned silence at its beauty, your first sunset on a lake.
I joked that Lake Michigan had its moments too.
The stillness between us that followed was comfortable as always,
despite the tension of the unspoken words.
In the lull of conversation between us, you finally said them, like a confession,
as if something so obvious could be a confession.
In other words, it’s nice out. It’s always nice out here.
I used to always tell you that I want to go to California where it's summer forever
and be the first to burn together when the sun finally explodes.
It seems fitting for the end of the world to start here.
Can’t you just imagine it?
Those license plates with the red cursive heating up until they glow ember.
I was here when I was little,
Before I spoke any English.
Maybe you were here too—what a pleasant thought.
My mother used to take me to the park after long, silent school days,
playgrounds that reek of nostalgia now.
I wonder if I was lonely then, before I had the words to say it.
I don’t think so
Her presence was enough.
In my last year of high school, our English teacher told us that poetry rings true
in spite of its vagueness.
But anxiety from the same sentiment blossoms in the pit of my stomach now.
We are trapped in cells and we claw at the cage with words.
But trying to articulate love, grief or faith will only ever be in vain.
Trying to pick the right words
In the right order
At the right time
close but never close enough
Confessions of shame and damnation
packed up into neat boxes of noun, verb, adjective
But all my curses seem like blessings with you
Because I thought the pit in my stomach was loneliness
but I'm beginning to think it was desire
Tell me something
The truth, maybe, if you can.
But maybe it doesn’t matter.
A moment of clarity in the bar bathroom with the French and Spanish women
whom I understand completely despite the language barrier.
(They were talking about the persistent urge to urinate after drinking,
Three different tongues and yet
more understanding than what can be found in some love letters)
Perhaps the meaning of life comes to you in the dirty bathroom of a bar in a foreign country you’ve never been to before.
When the sun finally explodes, maybe it’ll feel like it did in that bathroom, on that beach.
I don’t think anyone will need words then