For the first time since the beginning, I don't know you. You move as a stranger, or so I must assume. The memories live in my brain,
By Kay Husnickabout a year ago in Poets
You live a life surrounded by walls built up, up, up around you as high as you could go. You bring me in when it gets lonely
The sidewalk floods in front of us, puddles rippling over and over again, socks squish beneath our feet in soaked-through sneakers,
You board up the windows with planks from the bridges you dismantle, the moat floods over, and you set the boats loose from their dock
You and I were written in the stars long ago. I think we saw that together once, laying back on the hood of your car in the cemetery
What if I told you how I feel? That I know it's just me, I'm not your type, whatever or whoever that is, but that I needed you to know?
Her phone number flashes across my screen unsaved, but memorized — this is a call I will never answer, a voicemail sickeningly sweet and violent.
By Kay Husnick2 years ago in Poets
Your question bounces around my brain 12, 24 hours later. It echoes, replays, repeats, your voice in my brain. What do I want?
Still, solitary moments, the kind with ringing in your ears, those linger. Especially these days, no single distraction
Give me nothing but your voice for one hour at a time, maybe two, maybe three, sometimes four once a week late at night when you can't hold it in anymore.
If I could wish for anything, you could read my mind for a moment see how I see you, feel how I feel, understand what I have been saying,
I ask you why you love me not out of insecurity, but to understand what you see when you look at me the thoughts in your head
