The Last Poem I'll Ever Write About You

from by Sergeevich

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You were a poem written at 1 in the morning
When I’d laid there by my bedside
Begging for some relief
But I’m going to let that poem die inside
like I let the love that ran through my veins for you die
Because I could not admit I was in love with a lie
You weren’t the lie, but I lied to myself
Thinking you we’re going to save me
But then I realized nothing was going to save me
and I don’t deserved to be saved, anyway
I know I was wrong in idealizing you, but you were my first
And I was vulnerable and didn’t know what to do
Hindsight is 20/20 and I was a moth and you we’re a light
driving me back home
When I watched that light flicker out in front of me
The opportunity gave way to great mystery
You knew what exactly was going on with me but you could never articulate it
with vibrations so strong they could have rocked bridge cables
The seismographs’ reading would come back from my heart
They’d see the earthquake split it apart
The damage was irreversible, time is our only ally
So I let you slip between my fingers like sand
To let you go back to the ocean
And find someone else again
But the irony of this whole poem is
It’s one in the morning and this dying poem
Is finally getting relief by my bedside.


from A Recollection of Whitewashed Memories, released August 13, 2014



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Sergeevich Easton, Pennsylvania

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