It’s your birthday month. Will someone bring on the Bacardi rum? I no longer feel the sun since you’ve been gone.
I want you to trouble me, puzzle, muscle and rebuttal me. I want you to disturb me, discern, immerse and return to me. I want you to haunt me, taunt, flaunt and want me.
I think I found love with you. I spoke to mourning doves about you. I swear I found a home with you. I even ask the honeycomb on my altar about you.
I think I found wholesomeness with you. I’ve been at homelessness without you. I swore I kissed the skies when I was with you. I even ask my thighs why they cry now that I’m without you.
You put a love inside me I can’t get rid of and at times, you were my antidepressant drug, the one I sometimes dream of handcuffed, strangely enough.
I’ve been cold since we both disappeared. I haven’t found my heart in two years. Won’t you appear with your childlike light in my sullen atmosphere?
I had a boyfriend who cared about me but he came with his own limits, his own gimmicks and every minute he’s attempting to disguise low spirits with a million cigarettes.
He’s nothing like you and you’re nothing him and that’s just one problem. You barely came with conditions or superstitious wishes, but you were the warmth and blood to my heart even when it rocked bottom.
And I look to the sky and I ask why. I look far and I look wide and the answers were because I cried honesty rather than decide to spend the night with pride. You made me work for forgiveness like I was some damn spy.
What if I asked you to send for me? What if I asked for your body? What if I admitted to my monstrosity? What if every fear we own were given to prophecy? Would it change the divinity of possibility?
I can’t forget the first glance that cemented our song and dance. I can’t clean the scent of your home from my hands. I can’t eradicate the taste of you from my throat glands.
What if I still loved you beyond this distance and chip on my shoulder? How am I to know when my heart froze that last time in October when my entire life as I knew was over?
And if I show up at your door, will you come?
I don’t want to teach. I don’t want a leech. I don’t want you hanging over my head like a gorgeous chandelier. I don’t want you knowing anything about my severe bipolar gears. I don’t want your arm wrapped around mine. I don’t pine when impermanence is exorbitant and stands like an almighty saint on my shrine.
I don’t want every moment to be bursting of sunrays. I don’t want to use you for every essay. I don’t want your breath around me twenty-four hours a day. I don’t want any part of your happiness or your pity party or blame. I don’t want to share our pains and heavy existential hurricanes. I don’t want to be the “ex” to your exclaim.
I’m not into pacts by blood or marriages and certificates. I’m not into the mothering and the smothering of willingness. I’m not into decreasing my space into a tiny box to suit anyone or anything because I am ubiquitous. I’m not into cuddles that make a person feel connected to humanity. I’m not into systems manufacturing normality. I’m not into turning a blind eye to lesser insanities.
I’m not into him and hers and the chest of drawers. I’m not into sacrificing my time and energy for you and yours. I’m not into folklore when trying to coexist has been known to set across great wars. I’m not into careless tongues that mouth everything undone. I’m not into romantic love and the drug it promises only once you dare to plunge. I’m not into the togetherness of us, but the individuality of one.