July

Emotions run parallel as you speak of the past. I swiftly brush the dew from my cheeks, swallow the stone in my throat forget and hope the feeling won’t last.

I can’t help but wonder, whose hand you’d let loose, to plummet to boulders beneath, if ever faced with a situation to choose whom you’d pull to their feet.

Trying to understand, small things are easy to lose track But to me these small things are big things time passes and we can’t go back.

For everyday is someone’s birthday, death day, and anniversary. So it must silly to want one of those days just for me.

I can’t help but compare myself to another and can’t help but compete. I can’t do one without the other.

I can’t help but want to be more a lover or paramour when someone else was your wife then became a mother.

The scales are tipping but not in my favor. And I’ll keep on sipping because pain is my flavor.

The bittersweet taste nips at the tip of my tongue, I lick my lips and reminenice of the days we were young. Try not to dwell in the hell in my head, forget the fact I’ll never be wed. Shrug off the sting of 35, and that day that he forgot in July, but again, I say, I can’t help but compete, and still wonder who he would pull to their feet, I wonder if he ever forgot that day in April when life was with her was simple and stable.

I try not to cry over that day in July. When the only thing I wanted was the thing denied. Try not to weep because he doesn’t tell me “I love you” because it’s not what, but, how you speak and what you do.

I know it seems dramatic but that’s always been me, with a shot of cheap whiskey, and the need to compete.

I’ve never been good at finishing things they I’ve started but I can wet my lips until the sadness has been thwarted.

Just take a deep breath and swallow that stone and remember with him, I’m never alone.

Gifts are just gifts, unless it’s a life. And a bride is just a lover whom has been made a wife.

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