Some Things I Still Can't Tell You: Poems

by Misha Collins

I remembered this last night in bed When my knee crept up the hotel wall, Looking for you as I tried to sleep.

“Paftarenya mat oocheniya” Is Russian for: “Repetition is the mother of learning.” There are parts of your body That I replay in my mind Like a scratch on a vinyl record, The needle of my memory Returning again and again To the same part of you, Repeating and repeating Until your contours are What I know best, What I love most.

Her father died a year and a half ago. Waves of mourning still come,

When you were swimming in the lake of life, You thrashed and kicked up your head, Your arms slapped the surface waves and water foam. But there’s a calm and glassy stillness In the quiet of your death, And I can see far down To the depths of you That I never knew to love.

But this morning, When I swung sitting sideways On the edge of the bed In that space before standing, I found a big thing I had been missing: I have to remember to Be grateful for me.

I want to travel Back to our beginning So I can re-learn you And re-earn you, This time better. This time, I’ll savor and Remember everything. This time, time will Slow down

You said last night, “What does it mean? That you love me?” And I’m not really sure. All I know Is that without you I am lost.

When I was learning to act And needed to cry for a scene, I would often imagine the unbearable emptiness Of a life without you.

I have to say: that passing grade— The dreamer’s C— It’s good enough for me.

You see, your Eugenia Wants to be a tree.” I told her, “I want it to be a hedge.” I only wish I knew What I wanted me to be.