My Perfect Pair of Jeans


You taught me to feel again,  in all the ways that I’d forgotten, I was sheltered in a cocoon
I considered could never be broken, you proved me wrong when you breached my shields so easily, made me set my guards down so well,  that I never even knew the person
who stepped outside.

It felt like I was high on pills with dopamine coursing through my body after every sight, smell and touch of you. It wasn’t you in all honesty – it was just that somebody finally seemed right. It felt like finding that the perfect pair of jeans – the right cut, fit, color that emphasizes your ass in the perfect way and makes you look at it appealingly, even when it’s always been there.

And now that you’re gone, things are back the way they used to be. I am up at night again
for different reasons, there is no song that touches my soul. It is again a struggle, to write poetry.

I’m just kinda tired of failing again and again. Because that pair of jeans ripped, after making me feel like I owned to world it left me lost, flummoxed and helpless.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be alright again. But I don’t think I ever was, honestly. I just got waylaid by a perfect pair of jeans. It was easier to feel a lot about something than feel nothing, about everything.

I’m not broken, frayed or shattered. I’m just numb. And that’s worse.


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