I owe you an apology, one I can't directly give because I moved too fast when I knew better, I offered a love I could not maintain,
By Kay Husnickabout a year ago in Poets
The Book of Spells says to light two brown candles on a Thursday, that four lines and a long list of ingredients lead to victory.
I thought of you in July passing the food carts we went to after a day at the museum, made a note on my phone on the 20th at 12:10 p.m.
You can't cross Route 62 at Bedford anymore, and they repaved Francis, the tucked away, little dead end. The old train by the Lube was taken away a few years ago;
If you're waiting for the other shoe to drop, for me to be vindictive, get revenge, to come after you and what I'm owed,
The other day, I sat down and wrote you a letter. I told you everything I will never say, all the things I know if I really know you.
I'm making myself sick again swallowing my emotions and burying my appetite whatever it takes to digest the situation. I'm taking your words to heart this time;
For the first time since the beginning, I don't know you. You move as a stranger, or so I must assume. The memories live in my brain,
You live a life surrounded by walls built up, up, up around you as high as you could go. You bring me in when it gets lonely
The sidewalk floods in front of us, puddles rippling over and over again, socks squish beneath our feet in soaked-through sneakers,
You board up the windows with planks from the bridges you dismantle, the moat floods over, and you set the boats loose from their dock
You and I were written in the stars long ago. I think we saw that together once, laying back on the hood of your car in the cemetery
