There were angels in the trees the night
I dreamt Tobi came back into my life.
You were sleeping next to me; it was
the first time I felt safer in the arms
of the unrequited than longing for a future
with you. I felt you slipping away
weeks before, but I wanted to hold
on just a little longer—he was an unwanted
omen, a reminder of days filled with sorrow.
The night you said you didn’t want me anymore,
I allowed myself to watch Narcos without you
because not waiting meant no more weeknights of us
eating Thai food, curled up on a couch, binging seasons.
I will miss the time we spend in the bubble
bath—how you closed the curtain so we could
stay in and be warm, and the way you scraped
the frost from my windows without being asked,
or how you delicately placed my toothbrush
in the gold cup near your sink (please,
don’t let anyone else use it).
I’m learning to cut parts of you out of my life—
furrow the overgrowth of forget-me-nots, yarrow
and violets that flourished from me, agape,
when I thought of gifting you bits of my world.
I cannot be near you until they are under the earth
again. The ground must freeze over and never thaw.
Marisa Silva-Dunbar is a Pushcart nominated poet. Her work has been featured in: Royal Rose Magazine, Pussy Magic, Bone & Ink, Amaryllis, Midnight-Lane Boutique, and Constellate Literary Journal. She graduated from the University of East Anglia with her MA in poetry. Marisa is the founder and EIC of Neon Mariposa Magazine. She has work forthcoming in Honey & Lime, The Charles River Journal, Dark Marrow, and Apathy Press. You can follow her on Twitter @thesweetmaris.