Please enjoy this poem I wrote to commemorate a relationship that never got off the ground.
I bought you a present because I liked you. Because you greeted me by inhaling the crease of my neck as if I smelled like home. Because every time I walked through your door you threw me on the bed and crushed me calm with your body— you knew that’s what my overburdened nervous system needed before I did. Because when I was afraid we were falling too fast, you looked at me, both of us wine-drunk and beautiful, and told me “I just want to be in the same room as you.” Because when I scoffed and rolled my eyes, said you were annoying in that way that really means You’re perfect, you laughed and loved me (I thought). I bought you a present because my guarded heart felt safe— safeish—safer than it had in a long time— safe-adjacent—safe enough in your hands. I bought you a present because I thought you would still be here when it arrived. I smell like home, don’t I? It’s just a little offering. Nothing much. Something I searched for to show I care. A human version of a penguin’s pebble, made of painted enamel and an inside joke. I know now that you never would’ve worn it, never would’ve wanted to be marked as mine the way you loved to mark me as yours, but still—I would’ve given it to you. If only you had stayed.
Thank you for reading! I’m happy you’re here!