I love writing. I love writing poetry the most, but lately I’ve been getting into Prose. What is prose? Prose is the ordinary form of written or spoken language. It has no meter, pattern, or rhyme to it. I wrote this piece about a breakup I experienced last year that really tore me apart. The settings are false, but the feelings are true.
Picture this: you’re in paris, standing under the glistening lights of the Eiffel tower. There’s a wine glass in one hand, the rim has your lipstick stain on it–A deep purple, a gift from your mother. You’re crying. Soft salt water trickles to your cheeks. You’re embarrassed he’ll see.
He’s standing a foot away from you. You want him to caress your skin–to cradle your soul and certainly both at the same time. Instead, you’re both just standing there. A soft wind blows your way–a soft squeal slips from your lips.
He turns to look at you.
You’re standing there wondering if you’re ever going to feel less lonely, less like you’re standing and waiting for something that doesn’t want to come.
It had rained earlier that day. When it stopped and the sun was starting to rise. You were on the porch. The air was brisk and it began to get warm. The leftover clouds made a haze where the sun was just so.
You thought of him.
You wanted to lay him down on that porch. To lay next to him, bodies like olive branches. You wanted him to leave handprints on your ribcage. It’s a thought you’ve imagined a thousand times, except this time he’s wearing your favorite mustard yellow sweatshirt. Except this time you are marveling that your hands can touch him and leave you glowing.
You kiss him, and after you kiss him you listen as he tells you he loves you. Like a blessing. Like a curse. Fuck, it doesn’t matter how he says it as long as he keeps looking at you like that. He’ll look at you and say, “I’ve seen the good in you, and I’ve seen the bad in you, and I’ll try my hardest to love them both. And when there are days I cannot love you, I will stay. I will straighten my spine and stay. ”
Except, instead of feeling like the sun is hitting you from all sides, your nails are digging crescents in your palms. and the man who’s holding your heart in his palm is taking it apart piece by piece.
“I don’t love you.” He says. “I can’t stay.”