before I go on, I hope to make one thing clear: this is the first poem I never wanted to write. too often when I write about love, I am emptying the drawers, dusting the memories, and purchasing a ticket of no return. I seek asylum in these lines like my heart is a casualty of war, and I refused. refused. refused to write you into heartbreak. one day, I was to build IKEA furniture with you. set your snores as my personal alarm clock. build recipes with the women who make murals out of your accomplishments. I wanted to save this poem for you. wrap it in a white dress to unveil with your mother in the audience. I wanted a priest to be the mc. my mother our hypeman. an altar my stage. build boombox speakers out of my throat and blast my metaphors at the reception.
I was ready to throw an anchor overboard, land in your arms, and call you home. but you sailed ship on your own. sought the skies for guidance until the zodiacs asked to leave. to take on someone new. and I realize that the only fortune teller in this ordeal is the heart. and you can’t make a man stay even if the galaxies sit at our behalf.
so, when that day finally comes. that you call out wife. and your mother mija. yet I am nowhere in sight. and my best friend is forced to gather a congregation to sweep me off the floor. and our story is old. my heart is blue. my strength is borrowed. and your bride is new.
I will still say, I do
wish it was me, I do
but still wish you the best, I do
manifest a love that stays, I do
demand better from this day forth, I do
crumble today, wake up tomorrow, and pick myself up, I do
love me
love me
love me
better than you ever could, I do, I do
I do.
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