I live my life through the words I write
Rarely,
so rare does the blood drip crimson
upon the porcelain plate,
do people share the whole truth.
Selective harvesting
of memories
and stories
and lived experiences
whirs as a constant mechanism
in the background shadows of awareness
before any conscious dissemination.
How much of what we see,
hear, experience,
(or, of what we do not)
from other people
can we consider truth?
Anything?
I opened an old notebook
at random
from the stack beside my bed
on the bookshelf.
A notebook of poetry
from three years ago.
The page I turned to
contained words of
feelings
memories
metaphors
and people.
I offered to the page
a wistful smile
for just yesterday
I wrote about the same
feelings
memories
metaphors
and people.
And I thought to myself:
I need to let them go.
Can you believe it?
Can you believe that here
is where we are now
compared to where we were
before,
back then?
After all this time
you returned to my subconscious
drawing the curtains behind my closed eyes
to screen a movie
a movie of us
where we’re back there,
where we knew each other,
but also now, where we don’t.
How did you manage to combine
and intertwine them?
I could touch your skin
I could hear your voice.
You were there, with me,
real.
You were so real
that when the curtains spread
and my eyes opened
I looked around the room for you
hoping to find you
wanting what I realized was a dream
to be reality.
As hours pass today
the touch of your skin
the sound of your voice
and the energy between us
dissipates
until now
where I can hardly remember.
I cannot comprehend how or why
you came to me
but I thank you
and I hope to see you again soon.
More than anyone else from my past
I think of you.
I wonder where life has taken you,
whether it has pulled or guided you
to wherever you are now.
I wonder how much of your personality
would be exactly the same
as it was ten years ago,
like I remember.
I wonder of all the experiences
you have lived through
and how curious I am, and would be,
to hear about them.
I wonder at what it would be like
to see you again.
I wonder how those first few moments
of our reunion
would be filled.
Would there be tentativeness?
Would there be liberation?
Would there be comfort?
I wonder how those last few moments
of our reunion
would be filled.
Would there be longing?
Would there be satisfaction?
Would there be a strengthened friendship?
More than anyone else from my past
I think of you
and wonder
if you wonder these things about me, too.
Wondering
if we shall ever
cross paths again
leads me to the land of daydreams
where anything is possible.
I believe I read your character accurately
when I met you.
I believe you to be
humble, genuine, kind, loyal, loving
still, now,
as you seemed before.
I believe you to be
‘one of the good ones’, a shining light
upon this Earth
and the lives of those you touch,
including mine.
I will remember you in fondness,
in hope for the future, your future
and what you will create for all of us.
I will cherish your light
and the way you reminded me
that gut instincts, sometimes, are spot-on.
I am lucky to have met you,
and cherish the changes evolving in me
since that day,
the changes you remain oblivious to,
for the better.
He’s gone. He’s in the past.
Not in the present
and likely absent from the future.
In the past is where he can,
should, stay.
Part of me
but apart from me.
I cannot help but think about the past
imagining the could-have-beens
for me,
and all who crossed my path.
A deceiving road to travel,
and one cunning enough to make me believe
the pictures my mind paints for me.
Today I’m diving head-first into the paint,
the scenes of memories long recollected
accurately.
I see me, I see them,
I see a dozen different outcomes
besides the reality proven true
by where I am now, here.
It’s entertaining,
it’s painful,
it’s therapeutic.
And then, just like that,
I don’t want to think of you.
The past is the past.
Dawning Words 