Counting the Days

(my chalk marks on the wall of our days apart)

Day 1, Haiku:

These unending days
stretch like miles of desert road
between you and me.


Day 2, gwawdodyn:

Our winds, my love, how lonely they blow,
and the days in between seem to slow,
but I knew from our start, my darling heart,
holding you meant I’d have to let go.


Day 3, cinquain:

Hey you,
is something wrong?
Your brief words leave unsaids
and my stomach feels every one
like lead.


Days 4–9, pantoum:

This is the last time I say I love you.
I swear you won’t hear it again from me
until I hear you say it, too.
You’re free from that three word obscenity.
I swear you won’t hear it again from me.
I hope that brings you some relief.
You’re free from my three word obscenity.
Don’t fear to hear it when I speak.
I hope this brings you some relief.
When I said those words you turned to stone.
Don’t fear to hear it when I speak.
I’d have bitten my tongue off had I known.
When I said those words you turned to stone.
I felt the air turn cold as ice.
I’d have bitten my tongue off had I known.
I never would have said it twice.
I felt the air turn cold as ice.
I mistook you when you said amo.
I’d certainly never have said it twice.
I wish that you had let me know
what I mistook when you said amo.
I thought I heard you say it, too.
I wish that you had let me know.
This is the last time I say I love you.


Day 10, butterfly cinquain:

I know
these days crawl by
and the embers glow bright
so hot they verge on a wild fire
we fear
the consequence of raging flames
with no water to quench
the searing heat
we stoke


Day 11, a fib* poem:

My
sweet
darling,
believe me
when I say to you
I’d give anything to hold you.


Day 12, a double convex fib* poem:

I
sit
alone
counting days
and making wishes,
hoping time will pass more quickly,
knowing that it won’t;
still I wait
only
for
you.


Day 13, a double concave fib* poem:

I’m treated to a surprise call.
Your honey sweet voice
in my ear
drives me
wild
with
ardor
heated blood
flushing through my face,
and butterflies in my stomach.


Day 14, a fib-rillator*:
I
want
to die
in your arms
for just a heartbeat,
dead and brought back to life by you;
aroused in pure bliss,
heaven found
in you.
I
drift
on seas
of starlight,
eyes closed in release,
opening to your green-grey eyes,
I am so alive
in your smile.
You are
the
beat
my heart
so fondly
counts the moments by
in this, our private universe,
our place in the stars,
though only
moments
we
have.
Our fears
are put away
for another time.
For now we waste not a second
living months in days
desperate
for time
to
touch.

* visit the links in the poem titles for info on “fib” poems.


Day 15, haiku:

My desperate heart
swollen with this ache for you;
a beautiful pain.


Day 16, haiku:

The first morning light,
the opening of your eyes,
this is my heaven


Day 17, haiku:

I would trade my years
without you here for just days
spent touching your face.


Day 18, haiku:

Our passion sparks fires,
but the heart is left craving
the lowly embers.


Day 19, haiku:

Your voice has become
a balm to my suffering
a kiss for my ache.


Day 20, haiku:

Though endless in days,
our tragedy of timing,
know my heart is yours.


Day 21, Cavatina:

I type good morning to you, half awake.
Last night you called.
The silk of your voice still courses through me,
blushing recall.
Torn between that high and this lonely low,
my smile is small.
There’s just too much time when you’re out of reach,
and not enough time when you’re here with me.


Day 22, Free verse:

In my daydream
I am kissing your skin,
aware at each instance
and every inch of you,
satin-soft and responsive to my touch.

Blush follows the path of my lips
just above the waist of your shorts
pulled low by my fingers,
from hip to hip I kiss
feeling the rise of your hips in response.

I press my lips more firmly
so you remember
this is where I kiss you
where you know my touch
where I know your scent
this is where my lips belong.


Day 23, a gwawdodyn poem,

Again a phone call ends with me hung
between the words so warm from her tongue
and the ling’ring pain that burns in my veins;
more words for our verses not yet sung.


Day 24, A lune:

Today would have been
so perfect — 
us, in bed till noon.


Day 25, Free verse:

You’re so far away,
and it’s so busy there,
so much to do,
so many people to see,
and less time for us,
but you assure me I am still important.

I believe you, I trust you,
honest to god, I’m trying.
I’m struggling to feel worth it,
but it feels like I’m breaking down sometimes.

I know you don’t love me,
but I could love you enough for both of us
if you would let me.
There’s nothing else I can do
but give you every reason to come around
and hope.


Day 26, free verse:

Do you think of me
when you are with your friends?
Do you think of me
when you are alone?
Do you think of me
when you have nothing better to think of?
Do you think of me?


Day 27, a shadorma:

This grey day
spent mostly in bed
not a word
no complaint,
but I keep checking my phone
in case I missed you.


Day 183, prose… I have no poetry left for her:

The day came and the day went, without you, without your voice, without your touch, without a word from you.

This is being important to someone? This is caring for someone? This is meaning nothing to someone.

So here we are, here I am, where are you? I’m not really asking; I already have the only real answer you ever gave me. All the words in the world mean less than your silent statement.

You’ll never look over and see me, see me smiling at you, and smile back, never nudge me with your toes, never have me there when you’re sick, never get annoyed at me for worrying over you, never have me cook for you, never call me over to see something unbelievable or something that makes you laugh. You’ll never share that with me again.

You’ll never drink a cup of coffee that I poured for you, never pour me one, never show me your favorite kind and tell me I need to try it, never find a chai we agree on, never see me make a face at the taste of coconut water while you smile, enjoying it, never discuss pizza toppings with me, never pick food off my plate.

You’ll never again hear my laugh, hear how I say your name, hear me mispronounce things, hear me talk in stupid voices when I’m nervous, never have me read inappropriate haiku to you while you’re at work.

You’ll never take a road trip with me. You’ll never stand in an amazing new place you’ve never been, wide eyes and smile and turn to me to see the same look on my face. You’ll never swim in the blue hole with me or drink coconut and pineapple in Acapulco with me. You’ll never share anything new with me, just stale memories of times when that could have easily been different.

You’ll never wake up or fall asleep with me there. Do you understand that?Does that mean anything to you? You’ll never ask me to stay over or ask me if you can stay over, never hear me breathing, feel me against you, never wake up and see me, never fall asleep next to me, never reach over and touch me, never be held by me, never laugh with me at my cat curled up against your back, never hear me whisper in your ear how much you mean to me.

You’ll never have another love poem from me… the words that should have been for you will be for someone else. I hope you go back and read all of the words I wrote you, not to hurt you, but to remind you, maybe years down the line when you can better understand what you did, that the decision was all you… I only ever wanted to be with you.

You’ll never finish off a bottle or two of wine with me, laughing, flushed, and happy, never sit outside watching the sunset, tipsy, and smiling with me at the beauty of it all, never know summer with me, never know winter with me.

You’ll never again be frustrated by nearly everything about me.

Your lips will be someone else’s kisses and I promise you, they will never compare to mine. Never.

You’ll never look at anyone, ever again, and see anywhere close to the depth of feeling I had for you.

Somehow you’re at peace with this.

I’m done counting wasted days.


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