I Can’t Go Back Without You

Drew Coffman

I can’t go back to that spot.
I tried once, but my legs grew heavy
like concrete blocks sinking into the ground
and pulling me down into the hot
core of the earth.
I can’t go back to where we laid together,
floating beneath the wires,
our bodies touching,
your fingers laced between mine,
braided together in everlasting clasp.
I can’t go back, not ever, because then
I’d remember the exact color of your eyes,
melted bronze,
two chocolate drops dissolving in my palms
and staining a blouse so carefully unbuttoned
by hands that took their time.
I can’t go back without you,
it wouldn’t be the same;
I’d get lost in the memory of your mouth
closed so tightly upon mine,
sealing in the sunlight and wild blueberry kiss,
our tongues waltzing,
dancing and dipping inside caverns deep,
my bottom lip grasped between your teeth.
Even when I think I could go back,
I know the patch of wildflowers
where you knelt down and stole a single one,
where you placed it gingerly behind my ear,
will no longer be there.
And I swear…
if I went back and everything had changed–
Or worse, if it all was the same–
I’d be too afraid
I’d never find
my way
home. Thought Catalog Logo Mark


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