Eight Days

I used to twist radio knobs right
to blare the same songs in my car
that I have to shut off now
because I can’t listen to lyrics
when I see your name between
every line.
And none of my poems make sense anymore
because your name rhymes with nothing
I need to say,
and the flow of my pen
is interrupted with the flow of my tears;
ink and water have never mixed well.
And I’ve stopped watching sunrises
creasing over familiar skylines
and kissing landscapes
the way I once kissed your cheek
because they remind me of how
I woke up to one once with you at my side.
You showed me how to live my life in vibrancy,
not that my world wasn’t coloured in before I met you,
but you changed it from watercolours
to Technicolor,
and now it’s all a mild shade of grey.
And while I used to look up at the sky with you
and be comforted by its vastness,
now I’m too preoccupied
with worrying about how small
I suddenly feel looking up at the sky
alone.

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