The Poetry Marathon

The fog is palpable.

It drifts through me,

And in me,

And chills me to my core.

It doesn’t feel real.

I don’t feel human.

The thought of you suffocates me now.

The memories of us

Are strained and warped

I feel the need to apologize,

But I know now

I have nothing to apologize for

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I’m not sorry.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be you.

I don’t like coffee.

The wind blows through the trees

And the grass

And the leaves

And me

Until we are all nothing but wind

And wasted potential.

I don’t like coffee,

But when we live together,

We will have a coffee maker.

I stare at the horizon and I feel the tires,

And the engines,

And the angry voices yet to come,

I feel them as they tear apart a home

That was never really mine.

You like gas station coffee the best.

You eat it on late nights

and early mornings

Paired with stale saltines.

The cars are coming now,

And they steal the wind away from me.

They murdered who I was,

And now,

They threaten the man I have become.

I promise,

When we live together

I will buy you boxes of saltines,

Just to let them go stale.

I will walk with you to 7/11

Well past midnight,

Just to get a drink I despise.

I will do it all,

if you just promise

to get me away from here.

It’s very quiet,

But it’s not quiet enough.

Everyone whispers, at funerals.

But no one ever shuts up.

There is a collage near the front,

With pictures of you.

When you were small,

When you were young,

And then some from near the end.

You smile in all of them.

So many people come up

and talk about your smile.

I don’t remember your smile when I think of you.

I remember humid afternoons,

And games I was too young to play,

And strained voices

traveling through the vents.

I miss you, still.

But I don’t think of your smile.