And This is How It Ends

Baby, I haven’t even met you,

but you’re breaking my heart.

We will love like a car crash,

bodies on fire and souls collide.

You leave poetry in my veins.

You leave me on a Thursday.

This is how it ends.


This won’t be a story about

eyes meeting in Starbucks,

about coffee-cup confusion,

God, the stereotypes we’ll fill,

your number on my napkin,

but this isn’t about then, no.

This is how it ends.


I won’t even mention the

roses and the poems I’ll write,

the kids we’ll name after

stars that dance in eyes. You

will play morning-after vinyls.

That song will still make me cry.

This is how it ends.


The feel of your hand in

mine, the explosion of you

against my taste buds, and I

can still savor you now.

It’s all my new girl will taste

when we’re in your sheets.

This is how it ends.


You’ll get up at three a.m.

and decide you want to see

the sunrise, we drive ‘til we

can see green glass on the sea;

it is the color of the dress

you will wear to tell me its over.

This is how it ends.


But I can’t keep writing on

public displays of affection,

of annoyance, stop apologizing,

I’m sorry, you wish I’d mean it,

and you won’t when you go.

Sorry doesn't suit you at all.

This is how it ends.


You’ll tell me you just want

me to be happy, normal,

something I'm not, I can't

pretend to read your mind

anymore, do you know what

its like to love a broken soul? Yeah.

You do. This is how it ends.


I'd rather write how you’ll kiss

how you’ll love my poems and

I’ll love your morning-after vinyls;

you will be the best thing I ever

lose, but this isn’t a poem about

how it will feel to car-crash love.

I've written too many love stories.

This is how it ends.

Charlie Leppert

Originally appeared in the 2013-2014 edition of Outside In.