TOUCHSTONE
ART LIT ABOUT SUSTAINABILITY STAFF

I saved you a place in my poetry I thought you deserved.

I hoped you’d feel the tug of my pencil on the pages in your spine.

I’d bleed over my notebook with my words.

 

Some days I can’t get out of bed, remembering the curve

of your body in mine. I’d suck on your breathed air, recline

into that spot in my poetry. I reserved you a place I’m not sure you deserve.

 

Our hands looped across the counter on the corner of Fulton and Third

was always better than the bagels and your Dr. Pepper. I assumed it was also mine.

I hate that I’m bleeding over my notebook with my words.

 

Is there a word for believing in someone with too much nerve?

For when you attach your soul to theirs with fishing line?

You reserve a place in my poetry you don’t even deserve.

 

I love you too hard, with a love that preserves.

I want to give up on you, say it’s fine; I don’t want to pine.

I can’t stop bleeding over my notebook with my words.

 

I don’t even know if your love is genuinely what I’d prefer.

I don’t know if I need you, or anyone, to see me as divine,

but you’ve taken a place in my poetry you don’t even deserve.

I’m sick of bleeding over my notebook with my words.

MORE FROM AUTHOR

ALEXA
JOHNSON

RESERVATIONS

Poetry