Kyla Pasha | Poetry

but I do try, my love, to find you and piece you
together
of old stories or old hurts, I can’t say which,
because I haven’t heard the half of it
yet and I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I can’t
grind
to this painful a halt without dying a little
of some unnamed malady, and I wish
you could see the big room I made up for you that I haven’t
even seen yet myself because,
gosh, it’s all about you, isn’t it,
it’s all a picture of what isn’t even made yet, isn’t even said,
and I would so look upon your countenance divine
or write you some other soppy anachronism, I would so
have you here, near me
where the pauses could unpause and the film revive
but I am so sorry, love, that when
you are not here, you are not here, you don’t
ghost through my days like a love story
someone told once upon a time without therapists
and painful honesty, I am, I am, so sorry
there are so many facets
to one woman
and two is just too many
reflections
mirrors
ways of seeing
that I don’t wish I was blind but I
wish I was a better seamstress, I could patch us up
right quick
and there’d be beauty instead of sparks,
shard one and shard two could get to know each other
better, I would build us up real good,
but maybe false churches get took apart
so I won’t lay brick to brick
just yet
or ever
I don’t know but you’re so
beautiful wherever you are.