I live my life through the words I write
Can I offer enough forgiveness
to my past self, to you,
to erase the pain, the confusion, the betrayal,
burning from your eyes
into mine, that night?
Your eyes burn into mine, still,
whenever I think of you.
That fire is the first thing I see,
still feel.
If I’m meant to feel that fire forever,
a hard punishment it would be.
Hard, and justified.
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.
What if
the last time I saw you
will really be
the last time?
Collecting dust in the corner,
memories of who I once was
and hoped to be,
stand stagnant
letting the castaway remnants of air
settle, and find a new home.
Layer upon layer,
compressing those beneath,
perhaps eventually
stratifications will appear through the dusty clouds.
Memories, all visible,
stacked on top of the other.
Remove one layer at a time,
clean and polish the surface.
When memories have turned to dust
it’s time to let them go.
One day
you will think of them
for the first time in a long time
and you will think you can go back to that time
when you were happy, with them,
but then you will look around
and remember
they are not here.
On that day,
I will be here for you.
You came back into my life
like an overnight snowfall,
one morning I woke up
and there you were:
soft, but ominous.
When I ask,
“what was the best kiss you ever had?”
your memory dances,
I can see the sparkle in your eyes.
Who were they
where did it happen
did you see it coming
had you forgotten about it until now?
Let’s sit here in memory
if only for a moment.
Dreaming of the impossible
the never-happened, never-will-happen.
Dreaming of a past which does not belong to me
and may not belong to anyone.
The sights, sounds, conversations, feelings,
they are too real
to be imaginary.
They must be real.
I want them to be real.
Dawning Words 