He was the pieces that kept your throat together, from bursting because the heart stays there , constantly, alongside his name. He was the parts of you that your mother tried to conceal from the boys. She warned about how they come and want to make a home in your uterus.
But never about the man that comes, reaches for you, touches you like his love depends on you never breaking, never skipping a breath. She never told you about the man whose lips carve his name on your skin, steals your sanity and walks away with it slowly, leaving you to fend for the missing parts you never knew existed.
You were only warned about the boys that come and want to toy with you and tire you out because honestly boys never know where to begin with you.
She should have told you that that man will bring you winter in summer. That your soul grows cold, that all the poems in the world will never heal you. She didn’t tell you that men like him build homes in your rib cage but never long enough to settle in and have supper with your heart.
You should know, women mourn men like him as if they birthed them. You will mourn him till you catch your breath and realize an eternity later, he still resides in the depths that your soul reaches.
You should have buried him before he kissed the back of your neck with the stars glancing down on you, before he said all he feels for you is scary and terrifying, before he could look at you and draw out your soul with his eyes, before touching him felt like a bolt of fire, before his hands on your body made you think you’ve glimpsed heaven, before you could break down his words and breathes and attempt suicide by trying to figure out what he meant.
Before he killed you by just merely saying your name, before your name, in his mouth, constituted to daggers and spades in your heart.
But he always tasted like he belongs. And you found a way not to die from his poison. Yet you are buried somewhere deep between closure and your hot scorching memories of him.
Memories of his power and his poetry.