For Last Words


The last words I remember still echo in my head at night. She was never one to say a reckless word. I know ’cause I always listened. I saw past layers of her carefully-chosen words, beyond her deafening silences, and I knew.

Sometimes, I would be sitting against her, looking into her eyes while she talks, and I would get that feeling that it is the first time ever I hear someone talk; she would say words as dark as her hair, words that had no meaning to me until her lips met mine and gave them many. And I knew.

The last words you said are always the same, but it’s how I remember it that is different; of all the words that you said and the ones you didn’t, your last words were the ones I couldn’t make sense of. I never knew.

The same words that I so much loved wrecked me in the end. I always knew.




What we are is no longer consistent; we keep changing and starting anew. You’re like a novel winter that I’ve never known. I struggle with the difficulty that comes with embracing you, and cold nostalgia¬†chills me to the bone.

What we shared remains untouched,¬†for it is pure and beautiful in all senses. But we change. Your November rain left me awash; I tried to understand. You say I became the song you loved but got tired of listening to. The words are now empty, and all the meanings lost their charm. But you’re trying to understand and embrace.

I’m changing the words, and I will learn to swim through your rains.