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;
By Kay Husnickabout a year ago in Poets
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
What if I told you how I feel? That I know it's just me, I'm not your type, whatever or whoever that is, but that I needed you to know?
Her phone number flashes across my screen unsaved, but memorized — this is a call I will never answer, a voicemail sickeningly sweet and violent.
Your question bounces around my brain 12, 24 hours later. It echoes, replays, repeats, your voice in my brain. What do I want?
