Post-Breakup.
3.12
For no one particular,
I can only assume that you feel like love. Rather, your
fleece under my palms, like soft summer sand, burns.
But I love that and therefore must love you.
There’s anger running off my tongue, too cold. It’s
March, and I am not a fan of this, of you.
3.21
Went for a run on a projected-to-be beautiful day,
The sky rained angry. Though the hail did not last long,
it only seemed to pelt my face when I thought of you. Even the
sky pushes me forward. The flowers you gave me last week have died.
I didn’t even forget to water them.
4.8
To the one I now love less,
Admiring many new beards passing through
the line at the coffee shop this morning. From here,
even squinting, none of them resemble you. This
is satisfying. One orders an extra shot of espresso. Strong. I
think I have moved on.
4.9
A guy in line,
Your sport coat and sling bag hold you together well.
Elegant glue I do not often find around this part of town.
I am window-shopping. I haven’t worked in a week,
and even then I couldn’t afford you.
4.16
Eavesdropping,
I ordered an Earl Grey.
“It’s no big deal,” the barista said in some northern dialect.
I don’t belong in this conversation, but at least I am listening.
That’s what you wanted, right? Earl Grey. No big deal. Bite marks
on my tongue grow deeper still.
Taylor Belmer is a twenty-three year-old Wisconsin native with an ever-thirsting passion for writing, specifically in poetry. She grew up in, went to school in, and currently resides in the Midwest where she works as a copywriter and writes in multiple variations: neat grocery lists that rarely see fruition, journals about what being “twenty-something” means day-to-day, to sometimes poetry that is ready to be overly revised. More often than not, Belmer finds complete value in it all.
Portage Magazine 