| How To Say Goodbye |
In my years of becoming maturity
I used to sit beside him outside the schoolyard,
Before that final ringing bell summoned us
From the Utopia we found in each others eyes.
He’d touch my cheek gently with hands not roughened
Of good times and cheap Friday nights,
His tender peck on my lips told me all I needed to hear,
The fact that he was as virgin as I, and I’d never been touched.
Lingering late night telephone calls found us debating
Over metaphors and lengthy paradoxes we neither
Fully understood or cared to intricately pick apart,
Much like our connection we found so perfect, yet unexplainable.
My best friend he became, more than my lover
Though we kissed more times than I care to tell,
Only, it was never in that passionate, crazy, kind of way,
It was a tiny lingering of some soft, secret code embedded into me.
He was beautiful in his bright, brunette smile,
The day I approached him with solemn whispers and one lone tear,
He was an enigmatic man in the way he bowed his head,
Kissed my cheek, and said goodbye without making it hurt the way it should.
Originally Appeared in All Things Girl 2007, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2007
I used to sit beside him outside the schoolyard,
Before that final ringing bell summoned us
From the Utopia we found in each others eyes.
He’d touch my cheek gently with hands not roughened
Of good times and cheap Friday nights,
His tender peck on my lips told me all I needed to hear,
The fact that he was as virgin as I, and I’d never been touched.
Lingering late night telephone calls found us debating
Over metaphors and lengthy paradoxes we neither
Fully understood or cared to intricately pick apart,
Much like our connection we found so perfect, yet unexplainable.
My best friend he became, more than my lover
Though we kissed more times than I care to tell,
Only, it was never in that passionate, crazy, kind of way,
It was a tiny lingering of some soft, secret code embedded into me.
He was beautiful in his bright, brunette smile,
The day I approached him with solemn whispers and one lone tear,
He was an enigmatic man in the way he bowed his head,
Kissed my cheek, and said goodbye without making it hurt the way it should.
Originally Appeared in All Things Girl 2007, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2007
| ~A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl.~ Anne Sexton |
| Stacy Lynn Mar |