I wish I could pluck sentences
from the garden of our conversations,
press them between pages of memories
filling the shelves in the back rooms of my mind.
If I could, I would
preserve the blooms of your words,
keep them for the sake of never forgetting
you - reckless, hopeful, flawed.
Stanzas of our most vivid moments
have already fossilized in my heart,
have lost all color and life - for now.
Maybe a few lines have survived our chaos.
Maybe someday I’ll be sitting a mountain,
paging through dusty volumes of this time
and I’ll find whisper-thin love-daises
faded and off white from the decay
of our mutual longing.
Maybe I’ll keep them.
Maybe I’ll let them fall apart
in my hand, and the faintest refrain
of their petals falling will sing -
you love me, you love me not.
poem - June 2012
