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Posts Tagged ‘memories’

The Nights I Remember

We lit up sparklers in your cul-de-sac,

our faces only seen in

flashes—

couldn’t look away

from our supernovas.

They hissed,

begging us to keep them there,

aware and eternal.

We united them, making it last

as long as we could

until it was time

to go back inside.

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After School

“After school”

used to mean

running up the hill

to melodic chimes—

sharing a slushy,

matching blue tongues.

 

My mom always gave me

five more minutes

in the “ducky playground.”

There was a broken duck seat

attached to the ground

with a spring.

I sat on it,

rocking it back and

forth, side to side,

trying to break it

more.

 

My best friend told me secrets

before we slid down

the biggest slide,

and we always liked

the same boys. I hated that

but loved her,

and we wrote bad songs

and stayed up late watching

sad movies.

 

Now “after school” means

401k plans, an unpaid lunch hour,

and early dentist appointments.

Resumes catered to jobs catered

to people catered to me, but

never catered to you.

If you aren’t full time,

you are wasting time,

and there is no time

for you and me

to talk about what we want.

Never say

what a company can do for you.

What can you do for them?

What can you do for me?

 

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White knuckles

My hands hurt

from metaphorically

holding onto you,

tightest grip—

knuckles white.

I still see you

when I am alone

at night and

the TV is flashing

from the other room,

muted.

I try to listen

to something other

than the memories

of squeaking swings

of a swing set

we were almost

too big for.

But you are tall

in my shadows

with that white hat

you used to wear,

your long, highlighted

hair getting caught up

in everything you

carried. And

those Abercrombie

smells embedded

in your tank tops and

in the stitches of your

new jeans

follow me in the mall,

in the movies, and

as I sit in my room.

When Blink 182 played

on your iPod

we threw our arms up.

We jumped, swayed,

and grabbed

each other’s hands

until our knuckles

turned white.

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Hollow inside

My guitar left

un-played in the

dusty, awkward

corner of my room.

It fills a space

between my TV

and a cabinet,

just the right

size with its

body sticking out

only a little,

and the legs of its

stand almost

glued to the floor.

It’s been so long

since the neck

has been touched.

The hollow inside

used to fill up

with sound,

but now there

are only echoes

of when I tried

so hard to

learn.

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Photo credit: barbsackel.com

Photo credit: barbsackel.com

The time I first

imagined you

running across

the yard

the hose was

sprinkling on

the cement

and splashing

my feet.

I was standing

between

patches of

sunshine

and pockets of

shade

as I squeaked

my flip-flops

and bent my

sunburned

knees

readying myself

to embrace you.

But you were

only wind

and it was only

summer–

not a dream

and not

reality.

I could only

hope

for next time.

 

 

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Heart underneath

I gasped

when I saw

you.

All grown up,

and looking so

full as though

my mind could

only dream up

a fraction of you.

I had tried

to take in your

memory as just

pixels or

the feel of your

heart underneath

all of that

love.

But holding you

beats the colors

in my mind

and anything

that I planned

on saying or

feeling.

Knowing that

you remember

me is not

something

I see, or feel, or

hope for.

It is the truth

that is pressed

tightly against

my chest,

draped on my

shoulder,

and purring in

my ear.

 

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No longer

Photo credit: balletnews.co.uk

Photo credit: balletnews.co.uk

It’s so weird

to think

about your

birthday.

I can’t picture

you having

one without

me there or

without my

card or present

or hug.

I can’t picture the

apartment,

the look on your

face,

or what cards you

got in the mail

this year.

I can’t picture

you.

You are not in

my life

and have not

been in my

life for two years.

Is it selfish

and single minded

of me

to not be able

to imagine you

aging outside

of my memory?

To me you

are two years

younger than

you are now

and will never

grow because

I don’t want to

know you now.

I don’t know

who you are,

where you are,

or how you are

right now.

But to me

today is not

your birthday.

It only

used to be.

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