The first poem I wrote that wasn’t about you
was in all capital letters
like it was trying to compensate
for your absence.
It was about a world far away from this one
where all of the plants were terrifying
but had healing powers if you
had the guts to touch them.
The first poem I wrote that wasn’t about you
puffed up its throat like a bullfrog
and begged to be kissed.
Its my favorite poem because I hate
it so much.
I read it at least once a day and think:
So this is what I’m capable of
without you. Go figure.

There is a hole in everything
and I find you there
smiling like you don’t have anywhere else to be.
The first poem I wrote that wasn’t about you
might one day be regarded as a masterpiece.
People will come from all over the world
to run their fingers over the print
and marvel at how empty
it is of you.
They will not recognize
your scent clinging silently to their
fingers.
Because if you walk into a room
and notice what is missing from it
it is still there
isn’t it?
The first poem I wrote that wasn’t about you
was still about you.
Damn it. Always.
— a letter to love | Caitlyn Siehl (via alonesomes)

(via therealjesstrafford)