So. This is a B
For those who enjoy that whole writing thing:
Not mine, but yours
I could never tell you,
of all people
what was on that torn bit of paper,
because it was always
lofted in the back of my mind,
next to the memories of
a creek I never visited with you,
the mountains, the rivers,
and the world I've seen -
all without you.
So to feel a little better about it,
I left a few mental crumbs
of your existence and
aligned them so that my blind
eye can run a hand over the braille
and understand what that photograph,
had it ever been printed,
would've looked like.
A green patchwork couch, that was
much too uncomfortable in
its mock plushness,
Two slits that supposedly passed as windows,
complete with cheap plastic adornments,
and most importantly,
diffused light filtering through
the encasing prison bar blinds -
soft and blue, it was just-melting snow,
that washed over every thing in the room -
a sublimation of dreams
captured in the lack of shadows the light
spilled onto your face.
It was yours, not mine.
In that moment, the delicate sensation
of riding through sprinkly clouds, that were surely
low somewhere envied, what grace your
features exhibited
in their unique quirkiness.
It was given the gift of memory
because of that distant, content look in your eyes,
which was neatly wrapped in your
relaxed features.
All of it was your picture,
just you and your freckles,
sitting on the couch,
and I was merely the shoulder the scene took place on.
Not mine, but yours
I could never tell you,
of all people
what was on that torn bit of paper,
because it was always
lofted in the back of my mind,
next to the memories of
a creek I never visited with you,
the mountains, the rivers,
and the world I've seen -
all without you.
So to feel a little better about it,
I left a few mental crumbs
of your existence and
aligned them so that my blind
eye can run a hand over the braille
and understand what that photograph,
had it ever been printed,
would've looked like.
A green patchwork couch, that was
much too uncomfortable in
its mock plushness,
Two slits that supposedly passed as windows,
complete with cheap plastic adornments,
and most importantly,
diffused light filtering through
the encasing prison bar blinds -
soft and blue, it was just-melting snow,
that washed over every thing in the room -
a sublimation of dreams
captured in the lack of shadows the light
spilled onto your face.
It was yours, not mine.
In that moment, the delicate sensation
of riding through sprinkly clouds, that were surely
low somewhere envied, what grace your
features exhibited
in their unique quirkiness.
It was given the gift of memory
because of that distant, content look in your eyes,
which was neatly wrapped in your
relaxed features.
All of it was your picture,
just you and your freckles,
sitting on the couch,
and I was merely the shoulder the scene took place on.