Untitled: A Poem

I once curated an exhibition for my heart

Out of summer wind and sea glass parts

I painted the walls with the poems he adored

Pinned up old conversations like I could will them to mean more

I framed the memory of us at the circus

And made sculptures from all novels he had left me

And when I was done

I stood in the middle of the  room and stared at the memorabilia of us

I stood in the middle of the room and felt the memories turn to dust

I played an old song and fell to the ground

And when I looked up again expecting to drown

My eyes stayed dry and my pulse stayed steady

And my feelings for him were lost in the sound

And three years later here I am again

The same streets and the same beach and the same autumn end

And the same itching fingers longing to pretend

That the well of memory can never bleed dry

That I can weave a never ending story

And we’ll never have to say goodbye

And when I try to think of you I see his face

And when I try to remember him you’ve taken his place

And I know that now all I’ve got are words

More ink and more leaves

Of notebooks and trees

More wasted potential of me

Desperate to make a masterpiece out of a moment

And I romanticised the memories until the very pages bled

And I clutched to the ghosts of the things you said

And it does not matter that I’ve now curated a collection of you, too

Of oil painting memories and sculptures of secrets that I can’t un-say

Because there’s a spot on my bed I still think of as yours

But only because it opens creative doors

You are the rhymes in my poems and the person I drunk-text

But in those pages of prose I’ve lost sight of your face

And while I love to write I really do

I’m learning now

What it takes from you

And your name is still there

On the exhibition wall

But its no longer a two-syllable story from which I fall

I always thought the goal was the gain

But I am fascinated by the loss of pain

And I am starting to wonder

If after all

The price for my art

Is an empty heart

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