By Y.Z, “Put your Weapons Down, and Come Home from War”
It works like this.
They leave, and then wait for
your letters like you’re the one who walked away.
Like you’re the one who
burned down the highways between your houses.
Like you’re the one who scattered the distance
across the train tracks.
They see you again and you’re rebuilding bridges
and your hands are blistered
and there’s a fire on the other side of the bridge
that should tell you to run.
But you don’t run.
You just keep building
because what else is there to do with yourself nowadays?
Baby, I don’t know where you were
when you got your heart broken for the first time,
but I bet you still can’t go back there.
I bet you’re still stuck somewhere else
waiting for someone to meet you halfway,
and no one is showing up.
I know, baby. I know.
He’s a wound that won’t heal,
and you’re so tired of your skin turning
soft and pink for someone
who didn’t stay to see it happen.
I know, baby, I know,
You’re allowed to start your day still in love with his voice.
You’re allowed to miss him like a war you were used to fighting.
You’re allowed to want him to come back like a soldier from battle.
One of these days you’re going to wake up without his
name waiting like a ghost in your bed.
One of these days, you’re going to wake up
and forget that there’s supposed to be someone else next to you.
And you’ll climb back into yourself and wonder why you ever left
such a miracle of a body behind.