It's just that kind of day...

I started this poem (see below) days ago but only wrote the draft down today. The first four lines feel right--I cannot say that for the rest of the work in progress (I guess that's why I say it's a work in progress). I'm not thrilled with this work. Some of it feels right, but overall it doesn't express what I really want. So illogical. Anyway, this day feels like the end of The Dark Night Rises except Batman doesn't come back and all hope is lost. I just want things to get better…I'm gonna go cry now…while, probably, he, in his own world, doesn't even remember me...

The truth is

I said never
but didn't really mean it.
I said ever
but I didn't really mean it either.
The truth, I wished it would be
like the movies--
I'd get out of the car
you'd see me
walk towards me
and with your arms
wrapping around me,
you'd hold me.
The reality, much simpler.
Emptiness, a fullness,
enveloped me
when I saw you
standing there
saying nothing,
except it was nice to see me.
It was still nice to see me.
Do you remember,
do you remember saying that?
I'm mad at you.
I'm mad at you
for what you did and didn't do,
for what you said and didn't say.
I told you
not to say it was nice,
not to say it was nice to see me,
not to think of me anymore.
Okay. It's clear.
I've been punished.
When he kissed me
I wished it was your kiss.
When he held my hand
I wished it was your hand.
When he brushed his fingertips
over my face-I closed my eyes
and you were there
like you never were.
He's gone now,
but you never,
never left my mind,
just like the last
sweet moment
before the end.

AAC ©2014

Draft: Broken Hearts

Broken Hearts 

Your mother called me last night 

to tell me you killed yourself 

the day before. 

It was a dream and I woke up crying,

believing now, it's over, for real. 

Once I explained to you 

the difference, in a LinkedIn Letter because you ignored me while you said you thought about me, 

between mourning 

and melancholia--

the difference between breaking down 

a memory or swallowing all of them whole, 

with one method making it nearly

impossible to deal with the pain you caused. 

I'd never met a more colder, crueler

man than you when I remember--

that time in July on the bench at midnight, 

that time in August at the gym at six, 

that time in May at the park at seven

that time in Summer at half past five

when I could feel the sun burning 

my skin and droplets of sweat 

started to bead up, 

when you said you had no feelings. 

You said I broke your heart,

after I asked you if you loved me 

and you said no, 

standing there with your arms folded,

checking the time on your watch; 

the one with Batman 

glued to the middle of the dial,

only because I ruined everything

for you.  

I listened and swallowed your words, 

like rusted nails, razors and blades 

you'd fine at an abandoned junk yard

of unwanted odds and ends,

ripping and cutting the inside 

of what was left

of my late afternoon soul. 

You said it was all my fault.

AAC ©2014