Some days I swear I can hear you sing to me or whisper my name in the slightest way. It’s like the warmest light now laid across my bedroom floor, is somehow actually you and not just sunlight. I have the memory climb down the balcony. I put a flower on the back of its dress. I paint it the shade of where the skin and the lip meet, Only a moment after breaking the kiss. And I blur out everything else. That’s how I choose to remember it. Some nights are a lot like the days, I lay awake too late, I watch the shadows casted, trace your shape. Those silver slivers on the wall then on the bedsheets. I hear your song in the trees. I finally fall into rest. Often later when I’m sleeping you show up in my dreams. And when I wake up I could swear you must’ve just left me. I leave the memory up atop the balcony. I tear this flower from the back of the dress. It’s best this time, I bet, to just forget and let go. Paint it the shade of where the lip bleeds and blur it out. I blur out everything else, just blur out everything else. And let it go.
Posted on: Tue, 01 Oct 2013 08:42:05 +0000
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