Poetry: Valentine

 The holidays are difficult when you’re single

Valentine’s Day is difficult when you’re single

Valentine’s Day is difficult when you’re single

And your ex’s name is Valentine. 

“You have such a sweet name,” I once told him, 

“I’ve never heard anyone with that name. 

Only that matchmaker saint.

And you.”

“Bof! We’re everywhere!” He told me,

“It’s such a common name in France.

Everyone, everyone, everyone 

Is Valentin.”

Months later, I am telling Bernadetta about this conversation. 

“The memories do have a way of coming back,” she said with a heart, 

“But as he said, there are many Valentins and that’s the foreshadowing of more, BETTER ones to come.”

She’s much smarter than I am, 

“Leave that stank mf to put his lanky ass elsewhere... 

He told on himself. 

He’s not unique. 

Period.”

But I suppose I’m used to living in extremes

Maybe I like it

Pretending I live in a movie all about me

The self-pity over the sickening shades of pinks

That the day was shoving down my soul 

The search for symbolism

The digging of nostalgia, 

Of the summer days, long with possibilities, 

Of turning into a cloud whenever you touched me

My skin burning for yours 

The yearning over your mischief and your wisdom. 

Mais en fin, Bernadetta is wiser.

“Bro is not unique.

“Period.”