Do you ever know I think of you
although we’re both so far away
in not just space but also time?
When you hear those words I never said
from someone else’s lips,
does my voice ever echo in the subnotes?
When you sense a face in random patterns,
do they ever have my features?
I ask this now
of what seems to me
to be of you
Leaves & Needles
in a puddle.
I still remember
the day ahead
our backyard was the world
the world is my backyard
the world is not our backyard
no one ever died
by the currant shrubs
we buried it
my sister and I
by the apple trees
planted flowers on its grave
and cried for days
a day is but the blink of an eye
far from a daily privilege
He turned around in the doorway and let his eyes sweep over it one last time before leaving. Now empty once more it looked just like it had done all those years ago when they had stood together, right where he stood now, to see it for the first time.
He remembered how young they had been, how irrepressibly in love, how filled to the brim with hopes and dreams. Some were now teasingly close to coming true, some had been crushed under the relentless boot heels of consequence and coincidence, and some remained as dreams, unchanged. Those now cold and naked walls, who had witnessed it all, would not spill a word of their wisdom to anyone.
Looking around, he tried to find a sign, just any sign, that they had ever been there at all. He found the permanent stain, left where they had spilt something boiling on the wooden floor, and he saw a dried red rose petal, dancing enchantingly back and forth across the room, following the gusts of wind coming in through the open window.