a poem

(Re)Reading War and Peace

When you aren’t reading him it is a betrayal.
To not think of him is to cheat.

And this is the truest love.
When you look at others you cannot begin to imagine how much more you’d rather read him.
Watch his smile, with a gaze that puts ‘piercing’ to shame.

Sometimes you will be so overwhelmed by him your mouth will hang open and your breath, caught between tongue and teeth, will fall back down your throat, never having been uttered.

You cannot keep him open forever.

This wine is not helping you forget what it felt like. And just like how every time you’re with him you suck up every moment because it is all that exists in the world. Eyes daring to gorge themselves on what truly can be called beautiful and good.

You want to stay up all night thinking about him.
To do anything else is a distraction.
(you are embarrassed to feel this way about him)

Tears at the thought of going back; staying is never an option.
But leaving is what makes him real.
Leaving him is what gives his memory shape.

It’s good and bad having the language to describe.
Before: you were enamored. Simply blinded by his beauty, but unaware at what was blinding.
Now you feel it. Now you can say it.
Put the heartbreak into language and let the words loose to circle your mind like vultures.

Yet you always feel as though you are doing the wrong thing.

When you are with him, part of you feels as though there’s so much in the world,
so much you should be participating in.

But when you’re not with him: you think to yourself that nothing
in the world
can live up to his existence.

You regret having ever left.



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