Consider this my silent thank you an acknowledgment, though indirect, of how you pushed me out of our past and into my present again,
By Kay Husnickabout a year ago in Poets
Christmas Eve was takeout fried fish, garlic on toothpicks, and presents opened on our grandparents' hardwood floors. We looked for red lights in the sky on the drive home,
I am counting down the days, crossing them off the calendar, willing the Earth's rotations onward. They go by far too slow,
Would you stay with me if I asked at the end of the night, so I can cling a little longer, linger, skip the wait to find out how it feels to wake up with you?
You are cluttering my drafts. A line here, a stanza there, a half-fleshed-out thought saved, and here I am, starting something new again.
Don't wait by the phone. I am caught red-handed, as in checking-your-read-receipts-handed, the stars see all or maybe I am just that predictable,
I pull on sleeves and lace up boots, fingers fumbling in excitement, and quick glances out the window confirm it, the first snow of the season.
You can call me if you want, send a text, it would still come through, stalk my social media like you used to. I unblocked you on everything, but
I tell you pretty words write them out, share them with the world, and you know they are for you, but there is so much more to say
You convince yourself all communication is conflict, so conversations become arguments in a split second, and you pull out crazy insults with no hesitation.
I have dreams about drowning on nights when my anxiety gets bad. A car goes down into water. I avoid it the best I can. It's the anticipation of flooding in my lungs—
He is every thing I have ever wanted, a check marked in every box, the originals, the non-negotiables, the ones I have never checked off before.
