“You don’t even give me time to miss you,” she said
While I had one foot out the door and both eyes
On the girl from across the room who was
Paying rapt attention to my half-sulking, half-dead
Words hanging at my sides
“She always like that?” the girl whispered
I moved closer to her, just to feel her breathe on my pale
skin. So seductive those mouthfuls of poems
Being sent my way, like words wrapped in blankets,
Warm and cozy—and I felt at home
“Are you always this kind?” I asked her.
“See, the last girl never cared about it.
I spent most of my days jotting notes written
On the backs of letters being sent to ‘Elsewhere’
A place where I knew she’d never miss them”
“Don’t stop now. I hear your love in writing.
The way your eyes light up against a dark-night hurt
as you hold my hand and tell me all the places you’ve
never been but wish to go. And time leaves us alone.”
I whisper, “Promise me you’ll be here when I return.”
Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev