When I was a child, my memory was bad. I couldn’t remember the date, but I would remember the way earth changed its lovers. If it was warm and breezy, I’m waiting for spring to rain. I’m waiting to run home and hear my mother yelling, you’ve made a mess again. I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up. If it was dark, autumn brings costumes and I dress up as myself because I knew that maybe one day, I won’t be so scared of myself. If the trees were broken, Christmas meant there would be no toys again. If it was hot, these car rides, you better not leave your crayons in the car again said mom. As an adult, my memory was no better. I can’t remember names, but I can remember faces. If you run into me and expect for a greeting exchanged between friends who say each other’s names as if we haven’t missed a day, the truth is I may not say much because I’m trying to recall your name like how often dew appears before daylight, I will remember how you made me feel during our last encounter, but I won’t remember a grouping of letters that adds nothing to this feeling. The warmth of your smile, it made that memory more necessary than a simple thing as a name. My brain works like getting off from work and speeding home just to get stuck in traffic, there goes the excitement. Fuck. My mind bounces from here to there, an invisible game of hop scotch that I played with my shadow as a kid. My memory is terrifying, a ghost I must see every day. I think about things and they fly away. I feel these feelings and they choose to stay forever holding my hand as a sculpture, it just won’t let go if we’re set into stone. I’m not a poet, I’m a painter of words. I’m not my name, I’m how I’ve made you feel today. I can only wish that I make you feel something
everyday. (via poetryleftbyher)
