“we spent november to september together and i feel like i ruined you.” by Claire Stephens

months of us sharing air

sprawled in your bed where the windows saw the sun

let in cool summer breeze

kept out rain.

closets and dressers that i reorganized while you played guitar

rays making your eyes shine like sea glass

water in mason jars to keep your migraines away

tickling you till you couldnt breathe

you wearing my oversized shirts

me wearing your old ones

i sobbed the day before you went away

i remember your mom hugging me in your kitchen

where we once made pancakes and frosted chocolate cake.

it was dark out, i overstayed.

i drove home fast and could hardly see through my tears.

you never even shed a tear.

an unfamiliar smile plastered on your face

like a sticker that my fingernails failed to pick off

we were miles apart and i saw people like i saw you the first time,

i felt guilt grow in me like a tumor, sick and bloody.

i couldn’t be what you needed and i couldn't lie to you.

the space next to my car is empty now.

i swear i can still see your tracks in the hardened soil.

my mother says she misses you, even now.

she thought that we were going to get married.

she met my dad the same time i met you.

i knew you must have thought of rings

the way i thought of houses and pets.

i thought of you as my epilogue, my afterword.

images of cedar fences,

sally and bruno chasing me with too much slobber.

you allowed me to eat and smile and sleep sprawled out;

and i just took your heart that had looked at me for years

tore it to shreds.

the tumor is still there under my heart.

every time it beats for someone new

i cant help but think of you.

Claire Stephens likes to write stories and poetry sometimes. She hopes to publish her own book in the future and maybe be a screenwriter.