I still talk about you in present tense.
As I get dressed, I prepare to get scolded because of my outfit.
I get ready to downplay your discontent and assure you that no pervert will have his way with me,
but it never comes.
When I crash on the couch I think about how I need to fold up the blanket and neatly pile the pillowcases before you make your way down the stairs.
I listen for your footsteps,
but they never come.
When I walk towards my room I glance into yours,
hoping to find you sitting on the edge of your bed, peering through your blinds,
but you’re never there.
No more beckoning me for silly things, or for nothing at all.
No more inspecting my haircut when I come home from the barbershop.
No more poking my thighs and asking about my weight.
You left me so quickly.
There was no build-up;
only signs, and heaviness in my spirit.
You left me so quickly,
I could never say enough goodbyes.
Poet: Stefanie Parrott