1 O'Clock in the Morning

1 O'Clock in the Morning

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

It is hard for me to look and you and see her fingerprints everywhere.

I've never seen her face, but I know the patterns that she traced on your mind and how she used a Sharpie when she wrote on your heart.

The worst part is that I'm pretty sure she knew the ink would stain; she knew that Sharpie can go away, but it takes time to fade.

To compensate, I write in very light pencil.

I want you to know that I am trying to be gentle; you have the option to wipe me away.

But, if I am being honest, I wish I were bold enough to use a Sharpie. 

Then maybe you would notice; then maybe you would give me a little more of your time.

See, but I am not like her. I would never blame you, even if I should. 

Maybe that's the reason; maybe that is exactly why...

I have a feeling that I will be gone soon.

You will brush away my residue, and all that's left will be a faint shadow on your heart, in the shape of mine.

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Reality

Reality

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Ah, a familiar story indeed:

a girl who loves too hard,

laughs too loud,

dreams too big,

overthinks too often,

and smiles just enough,

fell in love with a boy who never really knew how much she cared for him.

He overlooked the stars in her eyes and the skip in her step.

He rushed past her open arms and swelling heart.

She smelled like vanilla, but he never noticed.

And now that he's finally slowed down,

now that he's finally looking...

she

is

long

gone.

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Solar System Murals

Solar System Murals

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

When we were 5 years old, I loved you because you had solar systems painted on your bedroom walls and a rocking horse in your living room.

People said we were a good height for each other, and I thought that meant we would get married in the future.

Back then, love was simply a four letter word that I could spell backwards and forwards.

Back then, love was simple.

I don't love you like that anymore.

Now, I love you like I love lemonade in the summer and hot tea in November; it comes and goes with the seasons.

I love you enough to have let go.

Nowadays, love is more complicated than l-o-v-e.

Nowadays, we are more complicated than e-v-o-l.

You are still a good height for me. That doesn't mean we should marry one another.

You have strong arms. You once wrapped them around me as though I gave you something to write about.

I am proud of who you are and of who I have become.

Now, love means that I will always have a place for you somewhere deep in my chest.

When you feel lost, I will try to remind you of who you are.

You are a boy who has solar systems on his walls.

A boy with strong arms and quiet eyes.

A boy who taught me how to move on.

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Lessons: Recently Learned

Lessons: Recently Learned

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

If you want to fly, all you need is a car, a sunroof, and a boy who drives carefully when you are around.

Selfish prayers are still prayers; they count for something.

It's okay to miss people you're not supposed to.

Rest. It is one of the most important things you can give yourself.

Hugging is oftentimes better than kissing. I think that has something to do with the fact that, when you hug, hearts get pressed up against each other and breathing patterns tend to sync up.

The way the crinkles by his eyes become extra prominent when he smiles at me; that is one of the most beautiful things that God created.

The healthiest thing on the Jim's menu are long conversations about jumbled up hearts and misunderstood motivations.

There is no such thing as loving too much.

In fact, loving too little is the most dangerous thing you can do.

I am so afraid of coming on too strong that I sometimes hold back more than I should.

As long as there are stars in the sky and songs to be listened to, there will continue to be reasons to be happy. 

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Words for Someone Else

Words for Someone Else

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Seems like all the signs on the highway are leading us to the airport.

Everyone always seems to be going somewhere; but what if right here is exactly where we're supposed to be?

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Slightly Inappropriate Questions that We All Need the Answers To

Slightly Inappropriate Questions that We All Need the Answers To

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Where exactly does the line between "platonic friendship" and "emotionally cheating on your boyfriend with your best friend" lie?

Are babies the product of habitually trying to save relationships that burned out years ago, or is it always love found between the sheets?

What if I don't care anymore?

Why does kissing have to be slobbery? And, follow up question, are all stage kisses really just for show?

John Mayer, was her body really a wonderland, or is that just a line you used to get her clothes off?

If you don't exactly hate Donald Trump, are you still allowed to be a Millennial?

Can you be in love with more than one person at the same time? If you are, does that make you a bad person?

How come movies never show people excusing themselves so that they can use the bathroom? I'm pretty positive that George Bailey and Indiana Jones have to take a crap sometimes, just like all the rest of us.

Asking for a friend, what if the moon landing didn't actually happen?

How are we supposed to build a better world if we keep using disposable razors?

Who authorized heartbreak as an institution, and where do I go to file a complaint?

What if some of us really do fall in love too often, too easily, and too fast?

What if that is the human condition?

Do you think we'll ever know the answers to all of the questions?

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Right Now

Right Now

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

The floor is very cold; I can feel its coolness through my jeans, which is confusing considering how hot it's been outside.

Recently, I've been trying to be more aware of my surroundings.

The floor is cold and the room smells good and the song from the 80's that's blasting through the speakers makes me miss an era that I never got the chance to see.

I'm feeling pretty good, and I don't know if it's because of the song or the smell or the boy who's sitting next to me while holding my hand.

Maybe it's a little bit of all of it.

His kisses are salty because of the pretzels he just finished off, and when he leans against me and speaks, I can feel his voice echo from deep inside his chest. 

I hope he doesn't mind me writing about him. 

I also hope the fact that I'm writing about him doesn't make his ego any bigger than it already is.

I usually write about people in retrospect; way after the fact, so that maybe they won't know that I'm writing about them.

I've lamented over the fact that my writing is sometimes very transparent.

I was corrected, however, and told that it is honest, and that that is how you tell a good story. 

So then, here are the honest facts: the floor is cold, the room smells good, there is no 80's song with my name in it, the boy next to me is going to know that this poem is about him, and I just let myself feel the happy as the happiness was happening.

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