poem

[nonnichan]

Why do I love too many things?
The dust on the book pages...
I brush them against my nose and cheeks.
And think of the lives lived within.
All hands I could Touch.
All the breaths I could smell.
All the bodies I could hold.
The laughter I could listen to.
Missed opportunties.

What would your kisses
have been like?
Would you have been kind, generous?
Would you treat me
the way you treat others?
Would you have smiled,
when you spoke to me?
Could we have been friends?
Maybe you could have learned to love me
and forgive.
Old photos
Remind me
What I always wanted to give
Unsure of what I had
My heart hungering.

I talk to my reflection.
She is confused.
She cares.
She tries.
She offers every day.
A new piece of her.
Something for me to hold onto.
But she waits on the other side
Wondering when I'll come round.

She mimics me, never mocking.
She plays with her face,
Her skin.
Her voice is quieter
Than mine.

I point to the few things.
Insignificant
and resonant and comprehending.
Never noticed;
Always present.

Night blossoms.
Morning frost.
Safety pins.
Where do they go
Where did they come from?

And where am I now,
They might wonder.
They may never know where she went.
Where she lies sleepless
reaching for the faceless voices
In their dreams.

The old dreams take her to old places
All the familiar spaces
Strange faces,
where do they come from?
And where do they go?

Will we ever meet again?