by Shaun Terry
It wasn’t the end.
I had thought it might’ve been the end.
I was finding footing
on rotating, undulating mountains:
the notion that these feelings might be planted in the past.
And ours was so shallow,
I feel like a teenage girl,
poring over Nicholas Sparks,
crying to indie music in her dimly-lit, poster-covered room,
writing someone’s name in a notebook
complete with little hearts
and disemboweled hearts,
waving and crusty from where
teardrops pocked the page.
I didn’t think you’d do this to me,
and some part of me is glad you did,
but another part of me wishes
that we were 20 months into the future,
and that this didn’t have to be fucked up.
And I wish this could be the feeling
20 months from now,
I’m writing you a sad, stupid, pathetic breakup poem,
over what was a blissful, perfect weekend.
All because we want to be responsible with our futures
and we don’t have time for love right now.