The problem with men such as yourself
is that the English language does not yet have words
that can properly describe your effect.
The problem with you was that the
the way you sipped your coffee was somehow
than the touch of every past lover I’d had,
The simple scent of you sent me spiralling,
Mothers warn their daughters about boys like you;
the ones who strip you of your senses
and then recklessly reconstruct them
In the singular instant that it takes them
to flash you a smile.
You were the poem I didn’t want to write because
The way you were unhinged me,
And I haven’t pieced myself back together since.
You were a straight shot of whiskey that tasted
unexpectedly sweet, you were the poison that
I couldn’t stop picking, you were the poem
I couldn’t get around to writing because how could I weave together words that did any sort of justice
to the way you looked early in the morning, when the Universe was bursting straight through you,
spilling over my bedsheets and sinking its way under my skin
How could I possibly describe
the way your touch set fire to the whole world and I was
I was breathless
I was swallowed by the madness of your mind,
Sweeping like wildfire through mine,
Extinguishing everything it left in its wake
and I was too eager
to let it all burn.
You were the accidental surrender
that my heart never intended to make,
You are the poem I never wanted to write
because to do so would be to admit
that the season of you and I has passed
that our chapter has concluded
that our roads have diverged
that the electric reaction your life has had on mine
has flickered out
and yet this spark of lust for you
burns endlessly on.
You were the door that I never meant to open,
through which the entire world burst through,
You were the single greatest misstep
that I didn’t mean to make, you were the story
that I never thought would be my own to tell
And you are the kind of man
From which women like myself
Never entirely recover.