worries don’t look less scary in poetry form

It always has a way of ending.
“It’s the way of the world,” you say,
often enough that it seems
the world has a large amount of ways,
most of them about leaving.

I haven’t written in my planner in a long time;
I like to look at the place where you wrote.
A string of numbers that now look like beginnings,
a trailing name, yours, like a promise
that one day I’ll be staring down
the irony of the fact
that siempre and simple look and sound similar,
when, in fact, the concept
of siempre isn’t
anywhere near

You said you’ll always be my shoulder,
but I have two of my own

and one day someone else
will lay perfume tears
against your smile,
one day the compound we
will be split into you and I,
a tidal wave of angry-hurt-resigned energy
to power poems I’ll later delete.
This is why I won’t show you my blog,

because I know.
Because no matter how well we censor
the dictionary,
is never easy,
fades to nunca,
also described
as finding different ways to walk so I won’t pass you.


My brain is not used to you.
Or more like, it’s not accustomed
to the you that likes me;
it keeps thinking
that I’ll blink and stop daydreaming,
that your hands
will turn into my own again or just
the air
beside me, that it’ll be me,
not us, and
only, not always,
back to lonely, which is simple,
not at complexities
that you’re telling me

is what I can’t take,
the promises
don’t say them,
not the fear
of commitment but the fear
that you’ll feel
that you always
felt nothing
that the fireworks
were fabricated, the stars
never existed, the rain
was always falling
around an umbrella of acting,
I fear
that you’re really good at lying. I know
that you’re really good at lying. Why should I
ever change
any ingrained
habit that you’ve had before you met me and long
after I leave
or you leave me,
full-circle sunsets
over fake dreams
that look like cold sleet
in mornings
but you staying.

But you’re saying
it’s the world’s way,
stop hitting replay, let the past
be what’s passed
you by. Act like we won’t
go home and wish to cry
But keep pretending
you don’t see:
it always has
a way of ending


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