Nineteen

I was in love
with nineteen.

The interstate was freedom,
friends were family.
We renewed ourselves each evening
with coffee and shared cigarettes.
In the mornings we went our seperate ways
trying to navigate the plans we made.

I spent every penny on gas and polaroids.
We sang love songs all the way to Illinois.

I was heartbroken, lovesick, and naive.
I didn't realize that those days
would be my favorite memories,
all because I knew a girl with a laugh like summer,
and a few good men along the way.

I Am Trying To Break Your Heart

And as I pulled the half smoked cigarette from

behind your ear and

began to undress you for sleep

you woke, finally.

“I love you”,

pulling me closer,

you slurred.

“You're drunk”,

I turned away abandoning the task at hand

as you attempted to argue otherwise.

Sometimes when you tell me that

you think I'm pretty

it makes me want to cry.

You're always trying to break my heart.

©Emily E Johnson

The New Year

Wrinkled

your smell on my sheets.

A few cents on the bedside table;

the best you've had to offer.

Quarters for the wash.

Ringing in the new year

with clean sheets

and foul words.

A soiled goodbye.

The coincidence of a resolution.

© Emily E Johnson

On Standby

Blank canvases untouched,

a rosary never purchased.

The door marked off

with painter's tape.

Your final days

come to rest in this sterile,

unfamiliar place.

The elephant.

The nothing words.

Staring down at

something resembling you.

Wrapped in bruises and fluous tubes.

The hum of the TV.

I can't remember anything

except for the patterns on the floor.

You were there and then you weren't.

Every put off promise thinking you'll pull through

broken by the news.

© Emily E Johnson

Perfect Vision

I once assembled a

bookshelf

at 2 am.

Some things just can't wait

until morning.

And

sometimes you just have to

go to bed angry

because

the no good sneak

leaves you no other choice

and you have to wait

a lot of mornings

for the anger to subside.

In the meantime you

rearrange your furniture

and wait

for the sonuvabitch to apologize.

And then he doesn't.

And neither do you.

But

you'll think about it

just to end the silence

even though you have no reason to.

And you know

you should have seen it coming

but hindsights 20/20.

© Emily E Johnson

Unsettled.

The ghosts come

out at night.

They make love

in the pale glow of

the lamp light.

In bed I sit

with knees tucked

under

an expressionless chin

watching.

Stirring up stale embraces

from the dust

that long ago settled

there

on the floor

at the foot of the bed

where you tucked

your socks and shoes.

Where there

in the yellow glow

we made love

and other disasters too.

© Emily E Johnson