I’m probably going to forget
your name for the next ten years.
I’m going to fall in love again
and I’m going to marry someone
a lot like you without even realizing it
and I’m going to have his daughter.
She’s going to have eyes like galaxies,
a smile like summer,
and hands not big enough
to catch all the pain
she is trying to heal
and we both know it will hurt.
I know one day,
she’ll walk through the door
like shattered glass and
a heart like empty streets,
vacant parking lots
and cities with no porch lights
and for the first time in ten years,
I will remember you.
I’ll tell her your name
and only then will she understand
that love doesn’t always stay
that maybe love shouldn’t.
She’s going to learn
to love what her mother never did,
She’s going to love herself enough
to wash that blood stained shirt
he left behind on our front porch,
and although she’ll wind up with bloody knees
and scratches on her hands from loving too much,
she’s going to wear rainboots
and let the rain wash away everything he’s left behind,
grow flowers from the cracks in the sidewalk
and her favorite color will be grey,
because that’s love,