Author’s note–This is a new piece and pretty simple. I’m playing around with a narrator who is (obviously) doing the very thing he’s saying he won’t do. I was inspired by Neruda and the confessional tone and took it up a notch or two. It’s a draft I worked on a while back that finally took better shape.

acceptance is a nonnative language spoken by ghosts

i’m going to write all night
and not think of you
i’m going to sit on this
couch where we made love
before an open window
and burn my words
with hot water and a lemon
that you pressed into my palm
like a vow.

i’m going to write all night
and not think of you
not read neruda because
i’m good enough at writing about
love myself–you know those
words like heart and sweat and
moonlight and twined
that kind of stuff–
and i’m going to bleed
ink with this pen you gave me.

i’m going to write all night
but not about how your eyes
are small birds i have caused to take
flight due to my unsteady steps
i’m not going to write about
a small place in the center of my spine
that rises to your touch every time, no
not tonight.

i’m going to write all night
about how acceptance is a nonnative language
spoken by ghosts
and i’m going to think of
the next time you gather my name
in your arms.