The words don’t flow as they used to / I want to write about you / I really do.
I sit here, pen in hand, wishing you would flow out of me and onto this paper –
But you linger in my loins…my every inch is engulfed in you.
Unlike these words.
These words know not to ingest you;
They know not to swallow you whole
And let you inside of them.
Unlike my heart.
Which drank every bit of you.
And my lobes which imprinted your smile
And the way you laugh at my jokes.
Every cell of mine / Tainted with the love I had for you.
I knew it wasn’t a good idea
To keep kissing your lips over and over
But it felt so nice to slip into an evolutionary bliss
This is just what I was born for – Love and Sex!
My brain is unable to distinguish the difference between
Oxytocin and Dopamine;
Old friends; Now enemies.
But not these words –
These words can bring you out of me.
Unlike this poem.
This poem knows of me and you.
To write about you is to write about us.
Something that no longer exists,
No longer matter in physical form,
But matter which pieces together every time I think of you.
You are part of a memory of a love that used to be.
I thought I could write more
About us / About you
I thought I had more words
For someone I gave every piece of me to…
I thought it was about us,
But it was always really about you.
What you wanted / What you needed.
I love being Mexicana,
And I loved your Mexico, too.
But what most men do not know of sacrifice,
Most women often do.
Because even when I’m writing a poem for me,
I’m writing it for you.
There’s no way to undo all that went down between us two.
These words will not undo all my feelings I had for you.
These words will not heal years of one foot in and one foot out.
Knowing that I should leave, but staying because it was easy.
And after a bottle of wine, old love, I think I have to say,
Maybe you were just a figment of my imagination
An illusion of what I wanted you to be.
I was in love with the idea of you for so long.
And now it’s time for me,
my love, to move the fuck on.
I gave you everything I had and more,
But still – that wasn’t enough.
Unlike these words.
These words know boundaries and limits
They know when to stop writing about something that no longer exists.
So now, my love, this poem will END with you.
But it starts with ME and my words.