the stories that made me
Remember when
we met
for the first time
and you asked
“What’s your name?”
then when I answered
you snatched it
right out of my mouth
and I chased you
around
the neighborhood
until we both
couldn’t breathe any more?
On stormy nights,
when the ailing sky
wails and whines
outside my door,
I remember how
you’d walk out
onto the balcony,
catch the threads
of lightning,
and pull them
out of the clouds
to relieve them
of the rain
that pains them.
And I remember how
you’d weave
those strands
into a curtain
to hang
over our bedroom window
so I could sleep
through the storm.
Remember
that summer
morning when
we played barefoot
in your backyard
until we were so tired
that we fell asleep
in the shade
of the trees?
Every day since then
I’ve hoped
that maybe
we’re still asleep
on that cool grass,
and our mothers
are about to wake us up
for lunch.
She tilts the cup
and spills a single drop,
watches it rise up
towards the ceiling
and swell into a grape.
On her lip a smile
serves in revealing
her hope that rarely
had a shape.
Her hand touches his face,
just barely,
to leave some space
for her escape.
You tremble like a flute
in his bed
half naked and delicate
His warmth a sandstorm
that wears you away
Relax You are not here
to save anyone You
are not here
to be saved
Kiss him Wake him up
(might he remember you?)
Or leave him and go
Nothing changes him
but you will peel
those sheets off
a butterfly
Or a wasp.
A poem I wrote about a friend who committed suicide several years ago.
