Lone Tree - Rachel Schneider

Sometimes

Sometimes I wish you hadn’t died.

You left him so broken, beyond repair.

It was all I could do to keep him afloat,

treading water, a burden too heavy

for me to lift. You left him drowning

in unspoken love, unable to let go of

a deflated life preserver.

Sometimes I wonder what you’d think of me.

If you could would you thank me or would

you tell me that I could never heal him?

It was my job to gather the wreckage

you left behind. I taught him to love again,

but I could never teach him to let go.

I could never empty the ocean of hurt.

Sometimes I believe we could have been friends.

He clung to me too, driftwood in the open sea.

We must have something in common. He said

he thought I would like you. Even when his

heart was sore and his lungs were filled,

drowning in the memory of you. Friend,

can I tell you a secret?

Sometimes I hate you more than anything.

I hate what you did to him. I hate that no matter

how far away you are he can’t let go of you.

I hate that he will always love you, how he

doesn’t know how not to love you. I hate

you for dying – not that you chose to die. I wish

you had chosen. Maybe then he’d accept it.

Sometimes I feel like the other woman.

He’s still swimming through the waves,

fighting the current to get to you as if he

doesn’t realize you’ve already been pulled under.

I try to bring him back to shore, to my safe

harbor, but he’s still anchored in you.

Sometimes I think you are selfish.

When you had him you took him for granted,

and yet you held him tight enough to keep

him clinging to you like a buoy out at sea,

clinging to you for air. And now he still clings.

You can’t tell him to let go. Not that you would.

Sometimes I wish he had never met you.

Sometimes I am happy that you’re dead.

Sometimes I wish you never existed.

Sex and Exes

Bitch, you wanna see me sweat?

You shoulda seen me on top of him.

When you heard the news did you

think you’d won? I hate to break

it to you, but hon, even without my

touch he still thinks I’m good in bed.

And that’s when he’s thinking with

both heads. At least he was the

only one I shed my clothes for. I’m

sorry, I’m sure you needed the ego

boost when you realized he was too

good for you. Sweetheart,

green is not your color.

Closure

Upon this wall I sit and watch the tide

roll in and out, affection for the sand

as indecisive as your touch. Your hand

grazes mine. Is it true we really tried?

Perhaps I missed it when you tried to hide.

Your touch lingers, and I feel it demand

a part of me that no longer can stand.

Was this love just far too long denied?

But there was something here, and it still is

alive somewhere inside our broken hearts.

This poem is far too sentimental,

And yet I feel somewhere, somehow that this

needs to be said, before we fall apart

and crash into the waves that we feel call.

The Boy That Never Was

There’s a candle in my window for

the boy who never was.

It flickers just as brightly as

the laughter in his eyes. The warmth

inside his heart is matched by nothing

but the flame, and the tiny drips

of melted wax, intricate as his mind.

The candle burns to mourn this boy,

the one I could have loved.

He may have lived - this boy, indeed.

But mine he never was.

Sunset Over Atlantic

The tan line on my ring finger has faded,

just another reminder of the time we’ve lost

since that day at the beach when my ring

washed away with the tide. We couldn’t afford

to replace it. Maybe I should have taken that as

a sign.

Benefits of a breakup

1. Poetic inspiration

Breaking Modus Operandi

Mother, I will not ask if you think

he is good for me. Did you know

that before I met him I was, in fact,

unhappy? Shall I listen to Polaris

to find my way north, find my way home?

The scent of rain wafts so sweet, wafts

so gentle wafts so cold. I will

not even mention how your mate

has devoured you, drowned you in lust.

Are you truly loved? Are you lonely?

Have your prayers been answered?

I have been upset by passing time and

pain and heartbreak and ceaseless rain.

I too have been devoured by false loves.

But now he sings softly in my ear

“I feel that when I’m old I’ll look at you

and know the world was beautiful.”

Mother, whatever you may say,

today the lovely sky is blue, the lovely clouds

are white, and the lovely breeze is cool.

Open

That brief moment you hold me so tight

your arms tremble and your voice

breaks and for that brief moment I see

into your heart and soul, your very being

and I see how you long for me and you

ache as I ache, ache to pull me closer

to bring you in to make you a part of me of

you of we not two, one being held together by

a silver cord of connection that no one or

two can sever, the pain in your eyes when I

must let go since I am one and you are one and

together we are still two not one but

someday the goodbye will cease and I see

for that moment you long as I long and I

know no doubt because I see you and you

see me and we are as close as the sea to the shore.

Que Sera, Sera

The vanilla-cinnamon scent of your sweat lingers

as your lips taste the salty-sweet strawberry of my thighs,

pale pink against the dark upholstery of your car.

The shadow of the church steeple looms outside,

casting fiery judgment as your hot breath finds the place

it is needed most. Gasps drown out the crickets chirping

in the warm spring night among the dandelions and

wildflowers. We are lost together, happy to wander

hand in hand. You catch my breath and I lose your mind.

Intertwined and indistinguishable, finding our way

through unfamiliar territory. Skin against

skin, heart to heart, I grasp you tight.

You take me there.

Track 4

You step over the threshold to the

          sounds of Beethoven and Mozart. Beautifully

                    complicated, an enigma I plan to spend

my life solving. Figuring you out is a

          full time job, but all I’m paid is promises

                    and disappointments, affection and fear.

The definition of forever grows smaller

          and smaller, a wrung out sponge. Will

                    we be the ones to soak it full again?

Arpeggios leave out what’s in between.