that summer

it was in that peach blossom summer / before tenth grade / that you stopped coming home / and you never said it aloud / but i think we both knew / you weren’t going to come back / and every night when the summer storms came / i would walk out on the porch / and watch as lighting forked the sky / hoping that wherever in the world you were / you still believed in thunder storm magic / and i can’t remember our conversations / but i remember the way you cut your peanut butter toast / and how you frowned with your eyes / not your mouth / but most importantly / i remember / that you did not hesitate to leave / something i don’t understand / although i try to / because maybe this five bedroom house / was never big enough for your dreams / but it fit every one of mine perfectly / (you and me and brunch and big brother talks and bonfires with your stories) / and we were always taught / that if you love someone / you show up / if you love someone / you stay / so perhaps all along / i have not realized that / my love wasn’t the problem : it was yours.

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