I miss our all day phone calls.
The goofy laugh you do when I make a corny joke.
You weren't even mine to begin with and yet I smile when your
name pops up on my phone. I miss how soothing and calm your voice
would be whenever I was freaking out.
Our deep conversations about how crappy our families are and
how different we'd be from our parents.
You weren't even mine to begin with and yet
Yet, I still smell your forest pine wood type cologne.
I'm learning how to love myself after my past relationships, wondering,
how it would be to be with you.
Wondering what it would be like to wake up next to you.
To be in your arms.
To be called yours.
You weren't mine to begin with but right now I believe it's for a reason.
For me to love me and not looking for love from you or others.
Yes, I wish you were mine.. But timing is everything.
Learning me is everything. And for that, I thank you.
If it wasn't for me wanting you and you going completely silent,
I wouldn't have the courage to finally want me.
You weren't even mine to begin with. But I was mine since the beginning.
About the Creator
Annisa McDowell
Learning about myself through writing. Going through the deep depths of darkness and traveling through light, maybe find the answers to the universe. But most importantly, finding who I am.
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A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge2 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
I enjoyed this a lot - it filled me with a longing tinged with a minute sadness - hope to see more of your work!