When you fall in love with poetry...

My insanely talented roommate, Stephanie, has the ability to write some very heart-wrenching poems that touch you one way or another. One of her poems, which I've posted below, is by far the best piece of literature I have ever read. For me, the last stanza has the most impact because, like her, we have lost something that we believed would last an eternity. However, we move on with our shattered hearts in our hands, knowing that piece by piece it will be whole again. I had to post this here because I want others to read it as well and I hope that you take something out of it. If you don't, I hope that you enjoyed it at least.

Lady S.

---

what's left when...

i.
it ends without a single shot, all our weapons long retired
and bitter words saved for later. we're in bed together
for the last time with nothing left to fight and nothing
left to fight for, nothing left to do but love
each other quietly for just a minute longer.

our hearts are one of many things we lost along the way.


ii.
it ends quietly, the latch on the door catching
like it always does and you slipping on the hardwood
floor with your shoes in hand. that was me
spilt sloppily on the floor, love leaking out of the
wounds in my chest where you reach into
and took what was left of me.

it's graphic, love. it's hot and it's sweaty and it's graphic and
it's cold and it's lonely and it's graphic and it's
bloody in the end when you're dying of it.


iii.
it ends the way it's supposed to,
I guess, with you letting yourself out
after one last kiss. no,
there's nothing unfamiliar here but a whole lot unrequited.
it started with a fanfare and
ends with a whisper, like these things do.

don't look back. you never do,
but don't you dare make an exception this time, because
you're leaving this behind and you're going to understand
what that means. you don't lock the door once you're gone
like you used to but then, you don't care about
the dangers of the world and what they mean to me,
anymore.

you've just become the worst one and you know it.


iv.
it ends. we end and love ends and dreams end,
but not me. I am small and I am fragile but I am real.


by Stephanie Coulson