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“If you should leave me, my heart will turn to water and flood away.” ― Jeanette Winterson
Write a poem about what has gone unsaid for so long in your life. At the cusp of desire & imagination.
Tell them what you can’t tell them.
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How do I dispose of thee? How do I bend your memories when all I have is no dispenser and a bowl of longing? The poet preaches and you kneel at her feet and I, wake and writhing, I attempt her mask on my face. It falls. My pain becomes of me more becoming than love ever felt on my skin. I wear it and I am weary of this non-triumph. I am stuck in deadlock and I fight, scratch, bite, hit at all that has to be done away with. But I am afraid of everything. A speck of your remembrance and I’m pushed back against the wall. There are tremors within my chest - it is as if the walls I construct come crumbling at a bare mention of your memory. Which is to say, always. I am no longer alone then in my despair - my heart and I, we are separate but never apart. My heart - you. I kiss my fingers and I find you.
And every time a calm enters the crevices of the deep, dark place I inhabit, I see her and I see you. And that is where it all ends and I start from scratch. When will I heal, when will I claim what I long to claim and when will my resolve find me peace? I shudder at the thought of losing in the end - these memories of you. I told myself initially that this was the grand love affair that awaits all / it is pity it happened too soon and though I want to erase, I am unable to. Is that how you seek her too? Is that why this no longer is important - I am not important and you make it look like I never was at all! I want the love to part way, I want you begging for a touch of me again but all in vain. She claims my space, she inhabits my memories and she inhabits my skin. I fall, I fall, I fall incessantly. The heartbreak never ends - first, losing you. Second, gaining. Third, losing you once and for all. Fourth, claiming a space in your mind, of not your heart. Fifth, losing myself fully and finally to her distractions. Sixth, ousted completely from thought - from existence. Perhaps a little more than completely, even. If I were a canvas and you were to paint, would I not be all red and blue already? You move on to another, listless and uninterested in the one you began with. What am I then, undeserving of improvement? I chase your ghost in my head and I feel as if though I am being driven out by one infinitely better than myself. I write about her - to the extent that in wanting to become one with you, is that I wish to love her too, same as you do? Imagination supplements. Did all that really happen with us, whatever took place? Were you and I ever “we”? Were we together / were “we”? My god, was it so long ago that I satisfy myself with false plans. I will still see you, I will still be loved by you. In a distant land, an alternative galaxy, where you and I have not been ousted by the demands of reality, perhaps you still love me. I know I will never not.
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Letters to Saudade : Writing the unsaid
This space has been created to give people the opportunity to say what they haven’t to someone they love or miss but can’t speak directly to. All submissions will be posted anonymously. There is no format or structure. Say it the way you want to.
Come. Speak, memory.
