In Bloom

Pieces of something not fully formed

The orchid still blooms once a year on your birthday, as if she doesn’t know we don’t talk anymore.

I write you messages I never send.

I crawl into bed with someone new and pretend they’re you.

Knowing the act itself will stop you from ever crawling into bed with me again.

Maybe you’d forgive me if I begged. It doesn’t really matter, you’re never coming home.

I confide in the friends you don’t know exist. They know you though, by your nickname.

I tell them all the ways you’ve hurt me, as if I’m trying to convince myself, I leave out the parts where I hurt you.

I forget to mention that I’m still in love with you or how every night before bed I say your full name out loud, like a prayer.

You drift through my dreams swiftly then leave. I wake up heartbroken only to remember I am heartbroken.

I drown myself in other people.

I drown myself in wine.

I forget what you look like somewhere along the way to remembering who I am.

Summer since I saw your face.

January now.

The orchid still blooms once a year on your birthday, as if she doesn’t care we don’t talk anymore.

Wicked Game

October Passed Me By