Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Sapphic Summer

Peeking through the window,

like a nervous, naughty infant,

with a disappointing school report,

I saw you.

I watched you.

I waited,

not by choice,

but by command of my confidence

(or lack thereof)

that insisted on spending several minutes,

wondering why someone so delightful,

decided to take me out for dinner.

I watched you,

waiting for me,

checking your phone,

the menu,

your drink,

before you were back to your phone,

texting me,

three fevered kisses,

that spurred me into action.

I want to tell them the rest.

I can’t rest until I tell them the rest,

all the ways that you were the best thing for me,

all the cruelty of how life took you from me,

but it hurts too much.

You hurt too much,


I’ll do what everybody does,

to avoid hard facts

(and to sell books)

and stick to the sex.

After several dinners,

(at which I got much better at just arriving,

instead of dawdling),

I found myself,

lost in your apartment,

losing my mind,

by command of your…

(Yep, I’m still too Catholic for major details)

I don’t even know if I can write it,

because I never really felt like I lived it.

To wrapped up in getting it right,

I got it all wrong,

and I was never present for your presence.

It haunts me.

You haunt me.

I visit your grave,

on Tuesdays at eight,

because your daughter only goes on weekends,

and she didn’t know about me.

There are some things that are too complex,

to discover about a mother,


I let her rest,

never telling her the rest,

never saying how you spent your final summer,

never saying the things I wish I didn’t remember.

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