Poet: Isabella Eisenpresser
…I remember the last time I saw you…
I fell into your arms,
Wrapping them around me like an afghan,
The kind made by your mother in 1972,
The kind that itches a little but still makes you smile
because it is familiar.
You hadn’t touched me in a while, I wouldn’t let you,
and to give in was to dip my feet into forbidden water,
beautiful and sickening at the same time.
I could feel your bones beneath your skin,
They were aching the same as mine.
You smelled like cigarettes,
the kind you promised me you had stopped smoking.
I let myself sink into the smell and cry.
You felt so frail as I clung to you,
thinning like chicken wire,
I put my lips to your ear and begged for the man you used to be to come back to me,
but you were too numb to feel it.
I knew he was gone because you didn’t know what to say,
and he always knew what to say.
We stayed like that,
intertwined in the room we shared together,
in the room where I knew you had brought other lovers,
In the room where we would spend our nights cuddling under the ceiling fan,
watching it spin endlessly.
I couldn’t help but continue to search for him in your eyes,
but your body held only his shadow.
Instead there was a face that looked confused and afraid of me.
Perhaps it was because I could smell your sin like cinnamon in December,
It fit with you now, like a piece of you.
I know because all my silver spoons are missing,
and because I found tar on the floor of the bathroom,
and because you can’t look at me anymore.
I fell into your arms,
Wrapping them around me like an afghan,
The kind made by your mother in 1972,
The kind that itches a little but still makes you smile
because it is familiar.
You hadn’t touched me in a while, I wouldn’t let you,
and to give in was to dip my feet into forbidden water,
beautiful and sickening at the same time.
I could feel your bones beneath your skin,
They were aching the same as mine.
You smelled like cigarettes,
the kind you promised me you had stopped smoking.
I let myself sink into the smell and cry.
You felt so frail as I clung to you,
thinning like chicken wire,
I put my lips to your ear and begged for the man you used to be to come back to me,
but you were too numb to feel it.
I knew he was gone because you didn’t know what to say,
and he always knew what to say.
We stayed like that,
intertwined in the room we shared together,
in the room where I knew you had brought other lovers,
In the room where we would spend our nights cuddling under the ceiling fan,
watching it spin endlessly.
I couldn’t help but continue to search for him in your eyes,
but your body held only his shadow.
Instead there was a face that looked confused and afraid of me.
Perhaps it was because I could smell your sin like cinnamon in December,
It fit with you now, like a piece of you.
I know because all my silver spoons are missing,
and because I found tar on the floor of the bathroom,
and because you can’t look at me anymore.
About Isabella...
|
Isabella is from the Sierra Nevada mountains in Northern California and she moved to LA on her own to pursue acting when she was 16.
This piece is about losing someone you love to heroin addiction. It deeply reaches the fear of loving someone and not knowing who they are anymore, of desperately missing that person who is right in front of you yet has become a vessel for the drug more than the human that you once knew. Isabella is always open for discussion and sharing pieces and stories...you can connect with her: Tumblr: theironpress.tumblr.com Instagram: @isabellaeisenpresser |