I think what I had in mind for us was something a little less classical. I didn’t want love or lilies or complacency. You didn’t need to buy my coffee. It’s not as simple as simplicity for me. And trust me, I do not think you are beautiful in every form.
When an invisible breeze blows a small feather through the air, it feels a bit like magic.
Found dead birds are still beautiful. Much like dried, special occasion flowers.
My point is that hopeless love is doomed, but still beautiful.
You often claimed unfulfillment while near me. And I think that’s because I was never yours. And though I never belonged to you, or took you home to belong to me, we shared a codependency.
You never said it, but I think you were trying to express that I felt like the dying strawberry plant in your backyard. That I had the unsettling effect of a middle school dance. That I felt like hot concrete. Like sun-bruised cheeks– all hurt and pretty. And since your room was messy, I fit right in. And since I watched your family die, I wasn’t under the obligation of forever.
We never went out. I lived in your crumpled sheets.
You watched the incandescent television lights flicker across my back. Our comatose love felt like a cheap 1970’s dream of sorts.
And since I liked mud on my feet, I blended right into your garden: my place between the lavender and peas. Somewhere I could be me while still needing you.
But I am young. Maybe too young.. I can’t drive stick. I can not hold my alcohol. I make love with bruisy knees and always overstay my welcome. I still make friends with earthworms, and I wear my parents out. I have been told I am a fire escape of a girl.
You are old. You are a shut-in. You always have a case of the dancing blues. A life with you would have been an endless series of sad cigarette box evenings. And though I have proven to move more like a tether ball than a girl, I am not coming back.
You can not resurrect a dead bird. Or water dried flowers back to life.
Addily Dyer is sharing a few scattered poems that make
up the story of love and loss. This is her first time being
published, but she has shared her words through many
post stamped letters, late night phone calls, and shaky
poetry readings with strangers. She has moved from city
to city, lover to lover, job to job, with one remaining
constant—writing. She has recently returned to Portland,
Oregon to visit with old friends and to be comforted by
familiar places. While she has warmth for the Midwest,
East Coast and every place further and in between; she
seems to always return to Portland. Perhaps it is the place
where she has loved and lost the most. She would like to
be known for her tenderness and nostalgia; for the way
she always remembers the sweet, even when it was
bitter