Release

Him

Might I just say, midnight poetry never turns out amazing. But it has a lot of passion and pain in it, which is why it's my favorite to write. Even if your topic doesn't pertain to anything or anyone, it still turns out good. So, here's some midnight poetry for y'all.

~~~~~

He's in my thoughts, often
as I go about my day
as I go through the night
and I wonder about him.

I wonder if he's happy
I wonder if she treats him right
I wonder if she treats him the way I did
or better, she's probably better than I.

Every now and then, I hear his words
the specific way he said "I love you"
his little Southern accent, saying things like
"I'm fixing" instead of "I'm about to."

It was those little things that made me fall in love with him
he was a combination of all the best little things in life
smiles, laughs, everything
I felt it all so deeply.

And maybe that's why it hurts so bad
because I felt it all so much
I didn't limit myself, like I so often do
I didn't bother protecting myself from him, like I do with everyone else.

He knows more about me than anyone else on this Earth, honestly
it's thrilling and exciting and relieving and painful
sharing so much with someone who may care so much
but who also may care so little.

But he cares, he cares a lot
who was I before, dear?
I was angry, I was sad
I always had something weighing on my mind.

And I still do, my mind is chaotic
but, it is also calmer
which is a nice change
from roaring rapids to steady waves.

I was a joker, I made others smile
but I rarely smiled a true smile
until I met him
funny how one person can change so much of another person?

And every now and then, at night
I wake up from a dream, more of a nightmare really
of him, dying, dead, in pain, something
and I always wake up crying.

It's nights like those when I curl up in a little ball
a little ball of misery
and end up either crying myself back to sleep
or staying up all night writing poetry.

Those poems on those nights are the ones I write on paper
then burn in the morning
very few make it to be published
and this is unfortunately one of them.

Sometimes, as I attempt to fall asleep
I hug my pillow, hanging on for life
and a childish thought enters my head
what if that was him?

So I pretend it's him
and I always laugh about it in the morning
how foolish was I
to think he'd come back to me again?

But as I hang on to that pillow of him
I can smell cologne
and it's not my father's, or my cousin's, or Cody's,
it's a completely different scent, it's his.

I eat dinner and wonder
how would he change this dish?
Would he use less turmeric?
Would he add more saffron?

I eat breakfast
and as I try to get my cereal down
I remember him saying how it was
"a big ass bowl of goodness."

So I laugh, and continue eating
and while I do the dishes, I sing
Folsom Prison Blues
because he knows of my obsession with Johnny Cash.

And it's the little things that remind me of him
the little things that make me cry in the night
the little things that make me love him still
and the little things that remind me, he's no longer mine.

So as I think of him, often
I remember his words that no one else but me has heard
and I'm alright with the way things are
because he told me things may just be someday.

Just not today.
Today, I'll think of him.
Today, I'll laugh and cry because of him.
But tomorrow, well, only time will tell.