A Poem About All The Times We Tried To Love Each Other And Didn’t Succeed

Photo by  Gabriel Isak

Photo by Gabriel Isak

I remember the first time you tried to love me;
You, in your Audrey Hepburn dress,
Who I told you I found quite attractive.
We ate Italian, because, like me, you like Italian.
You fed me an analysis of symbolism of Murakami
That I thought I read off of Google.
And you wore red lipstick because that’s
What classy women who fall in love wear.
Your eyes were a clouded amber,
And your hair dyed jet black, like my ex.
You want to travel to Barcelona, Spain,
Where my public Facebook pictures show I was.
And this planet’s too big, and this town too small
Not to have wanderlust, you say.
Your favorite season’s winter.
Because you love winter landscapes,
Like the snowflake wallpaper on my phone.
I call you everyday.

I remember the second time you tried to love me;
You, in your blue dress,
Which I told you was my favorite color.
(It’s yours too.)
You talked about the latest in deep space explorations
A week after I shared my moon photographs.
And isn’t NASA fascinating?
You told me about a movie you saw,
By my favorite director.
You dreamed of traveling the Nile and seeing Egyptian pyramids.
And you loved the smell of coffee,
Which I smelled like on our first date.
Your blonde roots are showing.
I didn’t call you back.

I remember the first time you loved me;
You wore purple because that’s your favorite color.
And we got breakfast because you love breakfast foods,
Not Italian.
You drank water; coffee makes you sick.
You pointed to some lilies because you love that flower.
And you told me you didn’t think Gatsby really loved Daisy
Because she was a reflection of all the things he wanted;
He was just pretending to be something
To impress her, you say.
And this wasn’t something I found off of Google.
And you mentioned how you never wanted to travel,
Except by boat,
Because airplanes are terrifying.
You hated dresses and how thick makeup feels on your face.
And NASA is interesting, but you’d rather explore the earth.
You were living with me then.

I remember the last time I loved you;
I tried finding cruise ships so we could travel
To Germany because you don’t really care for Spain or Egypt.
And I researched German alcohols because that’s what you liked.
And I wore red because you liked how it brought my eyes to life.
I talked about how fascinating ocean life is
Because you majored in Marine Biology, not Film,
Like you told me on our first date.
Murakami has dust; I read Thoreau.
Your eyes are cerulean,
Completely unlike the dark amber of the coffee I don’t drink.
And you’re gone.
Just like the man who liked Murakami and Italian food.
But I’d sell moonshine for you, sure.

Submitted to ArtParasites by Jessica Monet