Chasing Ivy

By Kelly Grace Thomas

 

He tried to chase me like some mythical creature

mistaking my wildness for freedom, forgetting how the untamed bite.

Memories of rugby shirts and algorithms, ivy always grows in the coldest places.

He wanted to photograph me in front of the the 3am fire

built amongst my decadence

I spoke of passions and he searched for his,

 Poetry dripping from tuliped lips

Shadows of flames dancing against milky skin.

I refilled our wine glasses.

The weight of a Harvard degree clawed at his back

My disregard for responsibility never changed the bed he woke up in

or the fact that I could never decide if I wanted to stay.