There are parts of our story that still make me cry.
I did not realize that there was still an
Until I got the message last night—
The one you never sent—
The one about
I remember when you and I were yelling at each other
In the living room of my parents' house...
It was an inopportune moment—at the very beginning
Of the slide toward all sorts of death
And we knew each other well enough to deal
The crushingest blows.
I remember wondering where you had gone—
Who this new strange angry person was,
This person with the bloodied face
And the weak hands.
You tried so hard.
I know it—I know you did try.
With your sweet bloody face
And your weak hands.
And now I still cry
And all the plans I make
To end our story.
Once, when I was driving back to you,
I felt a moment of doubt…
Should I just keep driving to the coast?
If I keep driving,
I may just
Get around the inevitable endings promised by
But I was weak.
I missed your face—
You had made spaghetti,
Opened wine and bought roses.
So I kept driving,
To where you were
Because that was the only place I knew how to be,
And I kissed your face
Because yours was the only face I recognized.