In view

Every time my eyes shut
it feels like you’re looking at me.

Today, the music in this bar’s got me thinking
and I’ve begun to allow myself
to fold the way it wraps around me,
like the thoughts I get
when I see your face in my future.

The image inside my imagination erased complications of doubt
and found meaning in the connections
between the way you touched me
and the way you kissed me
that’s released me
into this calm day
full of casual clouds
that only spoke in pictures.

Now we can only begin to forget
because the seeds have yet
to fall into their own season
and without reasons
for the things we do
we find ourselves waiting
for a better times
and sharper cues.
Because somewhere
someone swears
they know the truth
and when this moment blinks,
I’ll already be gone, so read this now.

Remember the way my breath gave you shivers.
Remember where my quivering hands
still fought to hold your waist
and not a single hope seemed wasted
in the space between us.
So remember me.

This poem took four days to write,
not because I had nothing to say, but
because nothing was ever good enough
and entrusting these thoughts to words and paper
just seemed like the wrong thing to do.

Especially when my lips
fit your ears so perfectly
that even a whisper
would lock us together.

I want us to hold each other like hostages
and write poems like ransom notes to the outside world
leaving only pictures in their minds of the kinds
of the things that we’re capable of with nothing in our hands.
I’m thinking of when
you borrowed a pen from me
and I watched you draw feathers on your forearm and almost fly away
and at that moment
I wished I could keep you,
if only beside me.

After a week together we had a night,
the kind of night that trickles into the day
where our hopes create intentions
and distance becomes tangible.
I want to tell you everything about who I’m becoming
and I have more compliments than questions when we’re together
and sometimes my compliments sound like insults,
I hated the shower I took when I got home,
I’ve never looked at soap that way before.
And I wish that circumstance
didn’t rely on chance
like the broken floors beneath our tired legs,
so all I’ll say is this,
I missed you before we even said goodbye.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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