I’ve never written anything about you,
And I am sorry.
But I know that
No poem could ever say the things
That I have always meant to say to you,
But never did.
But never will.
I remember the long walk
We took on a starry night,
And you told me that all the stars in sky
Were just burning masses of gas,
And not dead people looking down at us,
Because they cared too much.
I never looked up at the sky
When my best friend died
Four months before he was
Supposed to turn eighteen,
And tried to find him in the stars.
The first time the eight-year-old me
Told you that she was scared of crossing roads,
You left her hand,
And asked her to do it alone.
Thank you, for not being like the fathers
Who clutch their daughter’s hand tighter
Only to let go of it
When they turn sixteen,
Because sixteen-year-olds aren’t allowed to be
Scared of crossing roads.
The first time you found
A box of cigarettes in my room,
I told you that it belonged to my friend,
And you said that you believed me.
But I know that you didn’t,
Because I saw you shaking your head
As you left my room,
And I closed the door behind you.
I am glad that you said nothing
When you noticed
The crisscrossed scars on my wrist,
Because I would have broken into tears
If you had asked me why,
And you hated seeing me cry.
You still do.
I couldn’t tell you that
Every time I slept,
I woke up an hour later,
Drenched in sweat,
Unable to breathe,
And the blades were the only friends I had.
I know that I never talk to you anymore,
And it hurts me as much as it hurts you,
But what hurts more,
Is that you never try either.
I know that eighteen-year-olds
Aren’t supposed to sit beside their fathers,
And talk about how
Life loses its meaning after the thirteenth heartbreak,
But that is what I want to do.
And you know it as well as I do,
That I’ll never do that.
You know what’s the saddest part about this poem?
That no matter how much I want to,
I will never tell you that I wrote a poem about you.