Dear Lover,
I am not as happy as the 18 year old boy who just had his first kiss in the hallway of his mama’s house.
I am too young to feel this old, as if love is not for those that grow up as they are supposed to.
I run from my daily errands to be in your presence; I escape work to clock in hours by your side; I cry many nights because I am not afraid to show you I care. This is the reason I wrote this poem- to tell you about my feelings and how my mind can’t let you go, no matter how much I really want to, because you are a rare treasure.
I have given all the mature flowers I picked from my garden of respect and dignity, most times I just pluck them, because for you, I have killed many roots: like ego, doubts, insecurities, and lies.
Deep inside of society’s disappointment, I rose to appoint trust and commitment to lead us through these cities of relationship. Yet! I am not as happy as that 18 year old boy who just had his first kiss in hallway of his mama’s house.
Dear Lover,
When you hold my hands, I feel the weight these days. Your lies are heavier and your secrecy is so dirty, it smells. There are no more fireflies in your eyes and no more butterflies in my stomach. Even my poems know you are so different these days.
The sound of your voice does not carry devotion, it’s just plain and heavy. Sometimes, it becomes the reason I can’t clearly picture your care and concern that you claimed not to have buried.
I don’t remember the taste of your lips when, just a short few years ago, I first held your hips and penetrated your sacred place. I knew the taste of romance- from the touching of eyelashes to the collision of our tongues. I could feel the universe in my embrace when I wrapped my arms around you and let my palms hold your breasts.
I still remember how the thoughts of you demanded me to wrap my fingers around myself and spill seed. Now, it feels like I am dying and everything has refused to shine. It’s like the sun has become the moon at day and left the night so vacant that it has to be filled by your memories.
But then again, I can’t write a single poem when you battle me before I put my gloves on.
So I dangle my feet in the ocean of pain and try to hold my breath, because I can’t swim in your understanding just to survive this torture called living.
You failed to see all I want is your commitment but it seems you lack trust and you don’t try to understand me.
But I am unhappy that you are living beside me, even though society has labelled us to be in what is termed as a RELATIONSHIP.
Dear Lover,
Now, I may not be able to let go but I really want to. I am unhappy and you need to take so many things of yours to the cemetery. I can no longer feel safe with the existence of your constant dishonesty.
Authored by William Anderson
