I often wondered if you captured
a writer’s heart if you could ever really die.
Now I am left wondering,
wherein all this does the writer’s fate lie?
It seems an entirely different life to now
from when I first saw you.
When you would walk in a room
and I had no idea what to do.
It makes me laugh now,
How much I fumbled and stumbled and tried.
And when I found out you’d gone,
I may have been a bit over-dramatic and cried.
You were this feverish obsession I had,
something I wanted so much,
but for fear of ruining a perfect dream,
I was too scared to touch.
I thought by finding someone new; setting my mind to other things,
I’d simply forget you.
I went through relationships as one does a flip book,
“Maybe the story will make more sense if I turn the pages faster, and the more I’ve flipped through.”
Rod Stewart may have been right about the first one,
All the others have just left me with papercuts.
With my mom and friends subtly wondering if I’m one of the-
Well, I don’t like that word.
Like so many dreams I’ve had that had flown before,
You all come seeping back,
like the floodwaters at my door.
Is the writer’s heart then like a butterfly?
You can catch it and keep it, enjoying it for yourself,
but this causes it to die.
I can’t fathom that it could possibly be true,
What I may search for my whole damn life,
Even now, sitting in the sunshine,
a pang of sadness runs through me.
I may grow old knowing in this life I had a big love,
but he was never meant to be mine.
More than this though,
It seems such a pity,
That my butterfly-heart is just sitting,
tacked to your wall.
Me still writing about you,
and wondering if I will ever have a big love of my own after all.