Your name is not poetry,
but it reminds me of you.
You are a half-shaken snow globe,
scattering 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 light after darkness.
You are science and math.
You can comprehend numbers
and molecules.
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.
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 tormentor
and muse until I write
the poem that can bring you
back.
No poem will ever bring you back,
so I write love letters
on my palms with hope
one day you can hide
the scribbled words
with open hands.
You are missed opportunity
and almost love.
Our past is millions
of miles of unresolved emotions.
You are a lighthouse
in the distance
beckoning me back to you.
You are 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.

– Jocelyn Mosman