do you remember how you felt when we swam in hazy languor amongst the stars? how you drank up the milky way and said you'd never felt so happy in your life?
i like to say i'm a writer
but i feel like a fraud.
i don't write about anything but you,
every piece of my work
is perforated with your prescence
(or rather, lack thereof)
and i think
i think about you daily;
it drives me crazy.
i think about how you're doing
and i wonder if you think about me too.
i fantasize about the could-be's
and what coulda beens far too much.
i wonder if you indugle in these ideas too.
some nights i picture the phone ringing
and it's you and i laugh and i say
" of course it's you "
but most nights i close my eyes and my mind
plays memories of us in
the form of super8 films.
the warmth of sunshine emanating over
cotton clouds
swimming in sea-blue skies.
endless emerald hills where we run
barefoot and wild.
we rest in the afternoon
amongst the shade of willow trees—
my head on your chest,
your legs on my legs,
your hands on my hands,
our fingers intertwined..
it seems silly now, but you were my first real love.
i always imagined us loving each other forever—
like we'd never known or loved another—
but i know
i'm not the first girl you've ever loved
so why should i delude myself into thinking
i could ever be the last?
the truth is:
i knew what a lost cause it was
to love someone from a distance.
reassurances dipped in honey,
"we'll make it work.
we'll see each other again."
but time dulls and distance obliterates.
we never stood a chance.
i always tell you
i never knew i loved you until i left,
but that's only a horrible lie i use
to conceal the truth.
the truth is
i've always loved you.
the truth is
it always felt like the wrong thing to say.
i was afraid
of a broken laugh track
awaiting me upon my confession
so i waited for the credits to roll
before i let myself get vulnerable.
you never knew exactly how long i loved you
and so i suppose i don't blame you
if you simply grew tired of waiting. what are we? what are we? the confession waited within me, wanting to come out, but i grew comfortable living in contingency. do we have to put a label on it?
can't we just...be?
i didn't know then that love spoiled, withered, or rotted but i know it now. i know it very well now.
we were supposed to meet up yesterday
but we both got busy.
i was going to buy you some flowers—
lily of the valley—but i realized it wouldn't be right.
we only exist in each other's memories
what happiness are we returning to?
we're walking time capsules. that's all.
a memory; a photograph
we're frozen in time in a flower field,
we don't know heartbreak or loss yet,
nothing hurts and everything is sweet.
a lovely dream; a lie
the aftermath of rain leaves petrichor.
my mind tries so hard to undo you
but my dreams never forget.
i write you letters filled with
all the times i realized i loved you.
attached is a flower i associate with the memory.
i suppose i've created a series of vignettes inspired by long lost whispers of lovers past, a language of flowers.
isn't that funny?
finally, when i'm done, i stash all the letters in a baby blue box with a golden ribbon and i tuck it in the bottom of my dresser drawer.
maybe i'll send them someday.
