Your Name

Your name is not poetry,

but it reminds me of you.

You are a half-shaken snow globe,

scattering your cold, empty stares

on everyone close by.

You shed your emotions

like snakes shed their skin.

You are a thousand white horses

drumming their hooves

into your muddy footprints.

I wonder what future generations

will see when they examine

your remains like artifacts

and dinosaur bones.

You are a single sunflower,

painfully beautiful and sad

soaking up the rays of light

after the darkness.

You are science and math

and everything I cannot

understand.

You can comprehend numbers

and molecules

like I can recite Shakespeare

and Donne.

You carry yourself like a sestina,

repeating the same six words

in patterns that twist their meaning.

I am your pattern.

I am your paisley and your flannel.

I am your bad habits.

I am your past and your future.

But you must be poetry because

no matter what I am to you,

you will always be guilt

and regret and empty canvas

to me.

You will be my tormentor

and my muse until I write

the poem that can bring you

back.

No poem will ever bring you back,

so I will keep writing love letters

on my palms with hope

that one day you can hide

the scribbled words

with your open hands.

You are every missed opportunity

and every almost love.

You were never a "we did it"

or a success story.

Our past is a tidal wave

separating us by millions

of miles of unresolved emotions.

You are a thousand lighthouses

in the distance

calling my name.

I am a plane crash in the

Bermuda Triangle

with no chance of survival.

I sound out your name

as my distress signal,

but you will never hear

my calls for help.

You are my dream,

my nightmare,

my lucid images at 3 am.

You will never come true.

But I'll keep whispering

your name into my pillow

and wishing on you instead

of candles and shooting stars.

Your name may not be poetry,

but it sure as hell reminds me

of you.