Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Love Me In July

You say that you love me as I leave.

The rain is raging,

but I can’t feel a thing,

because my skin is glass,

shattering as you grab my hand,

clinging to centuries gone by,

when we were in love,

and I wasn’t in pieces,

on the floor of my pastel dreams.

I dry off quickly,

glued back together,

my heels and my heart,

bricks, blood red.

You are raining,

and I can only feel sympathy.

The love is gone.

The anger is gone.

The disgust is gone.

I am just a sorrowful kind of sorry,

watching you fall to your knees,

watching you travel to where I was,

when you left me,

wailing and weeping,

waiting and wishing.

I can only feel sympathy,

as you tell me that you love me,

because love becomes poison in your veins,

when it isn’t returned,

infectious and insidious,

when it isn’t your turn to be beloved.

I rain for someone else now,

but I smile as I do,

and you are a distant memory,

that only becomes clearer when you text in the middle of the night,

asking if we can talk.

You tell me that you love me as I leave.

I take back my hand,

put up my hood to hide my hair from the rain,

and I tell you,

that you should have loved me,

back in July,

when I was poisoned.

One thought on “Love Me In July

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