The X {a poem}
To Them
Unlike the perfect rom-com where he runs after her,
this guy is leaning, hungry for attention, announcing his ode
to Playboy, sweet-talking some blonde chick
he doesn’t know the name of. Likely, he’s
probably not even thinking that besides the neon lights
and the wooded floor, there’s another reality
hidden behind his last few swigs of Jameson.
But the brown-eyed girl sitting alone in her bed this Friday scrolling through her feed, sees right through him.
He thinks he’s closer to moving on and getting over the 16 months he spent lying next to the same pair of boobs and gentle curvature.
She wonders if he misses it or if he’s done for good, and I
am trying to imagine how two people
who once were so in love are now wandering the streets
of Chicago under the same moon
as nothing more than strangers again.
Why do we let our exes do this to us?
We let them steal our joy and let them fight in wars in our hearts,
fighting to the death, until we are struck with the sword of grief.
We know that both parties are hurting, longing to say one last thing
to each other, yet we still act like nothing ever happened, wondering if our paths will cross,
just maybe in the same city, at the same time, at the same glance.
My mother used to ask why I held unto things
that I should let go of, like why I stand at the crossroads,
looking for him to be my savior. Why can our story not just die?
I’ll draw the letter X on the eyes and follow the gleaming light
of the train in the distance, as it screams at me to climb on board, but like always,
I choose to hang fire. She’d imagine me
happier, living my life full of independence, married to my career,
and not doing what I always do—wait.
But months pass, time becomes what it wants to be, he
can’t undo what he has done to her, and he knows he cannot fix it.
Maybe they were supposed to cross each other’s paths
at the same time once in this lifetime, but never again?
A weak match that never had a true spark, and just a bunch
of helpless romantics taking their separate ways.
He regrets it now, she seems to have moved on, for good.
The friend group they once shared now sits divided, as they
stand at separate corners of this house party.
It has been 37 days since their paths last crossed.
He wants to run up to kiss her
with lips pressed, heavy breathing.
It is urgent. Can he let her know he’s not over her?
Etiquette tells him, be still.
She hears her mother’s voice say, “You deserve better.”
He watches her every move with intense ache.
Her dimples appear kind, she shows off her breakup haircut.
He can see she’s happy now, making him internally kick himself,
While the words do you miss me like I miss you echo their minds.
But instead, they take separate train routes home,
among the echoes of their past laughs and fights,
littles reminders of what once was
and never will be again.
By: Betsy Rush
