I woke up and You Were Gone.

My first attempt at narrative poetry.

I woke up one morning and you were gone. You were still living and breathing. The blood still ran through your body. But to me, you were gone. And like anyone grieving the loss of a loved one, I started replaying all of our firsts. The first time we met, on the muggy back roads of the panhandle, tagging along with friends. The first time you asked me to be your girlfriend, the taste of cheese pizza still on my tongue in the noisy, dim-lit shop. The first time you told me you loved me, I felt my heartbeat in my throat while gray marijuana smoke wove and braided itself around us. The first time we made love, quietly on your twin bed with the sound of your parents watching TV in the living room. The first time we fought, my heart sank When you forgot our plans high at a friend's house. The first time you met my Mama, I watched her lips turn downward at something you said. I remember the first time we saw two blips on the screen and heard the drumming beat of our twins' hearts in the dark ultrasound room. That was the first time we felt the weight of decisions that were no longer just about us. The first time I left, after I walked in from work to find you snoring on the living room floor while the twins surrounded you with toys. The first time you held our son in your arms while I stared at his copper-colored hair shivering in the cold operating room. The first time you asked me to marry you, with a tiny sparkling diamond. I loved the way it looked on my finger. And then the first time I asked for a divorce, my heart heavy in my chest, my soul crushed after reading the email you sent to a woman unknown to me. The first time you promised, crying, begging, pleading with me. You'd get sober. You'd do better. Our life played like a film in my mind. Our children older. Years gone by since you promised that change. Dead to me, but not dead to the world. Isn't it ironic? I thought we were soulmates. Now I have to learn how to live without the idea of you getting better. Now that we've brought three children into this world. I set the table for four and focus solely on their needs. My arms grew weak holding your head above water. I let go. Tears warmed my cheeks as I crawled from the cold water onto the warm sand. Our children surrounded me and I finally felt the courageto let you go.

Author's Note

This started as more of a journal entry or letter. Someone kindly encouraged me to use more descriptions to help the reader visualize and I'm so glad they did.