Poem: After August

This poem has no content warnings and is dated 16th September, 2020.

 

After August:

 

Eight months later, you're still fresh enough

that my heart tries to turn the calendar

back to March every morning; maybe a

global pandemic alters everyone's perception

of time this year, but we burned so bright

my eyes still aren't convinced it's been

dark for this long, your silhouette a ghost

on my skin I swear has always been there,

in the same breath as doubting it was there

at all. We had that effect - togetherness so

natural that closing the door after my rigid

goodbye unwound the years of therapy

that had finally taught me I was complete

on my own.

When the love of my life left, I counted

every day of a year, so certain was I that

I could not survive twelve months alone.

Compared, eight months has raced by,

as perhaps appropriate for a few weeks of

explicitly-not-a-relationship, but in truth,

I've only felt human skin on my skin a

handful of times in the past eight months,

so for all my scolding it as weakness, I

think I can't be blamed for feeling your lips

brush my eyelids still some nights when

I close my eyes.

I blocked you on social media one week

ago, after writing three poems about why

I couldn't block you on social media; it

finally hurt less than the alternative, and

only when a new city did what eight months

couldn't. Typically, I can't stop writing

poems about something until my heart finds

a new anvil to shatter on; I know it isn't

healthy to look for one, but I'm sick of

writing about you, and my new paycheque

doesn't cover therapy. Perhaps this is your

final appearance, or perhaps I'll see you

in another few months' time. Either way,

best wishes; eight months has at least faded

my anger.