We met

at that point in life where a decade

makes all the difference.

No longer fodder for fantasy,

we either fly into dreams of our own

or further into factuality, suffering no fools.

 

You ask me, What would I like of yours,

when you die?

I am not often thrown off the mark,

but on this, I startle –

not at mortality itself, rather

into sadness that a thing might replace

you.

 

Not a thing. is my first reply,

crafted for its dual meaning.

Undaunted, you persevere.

I grasp a small porcelain cup of Venetian glass,

its colors and vibrancy visited upon a bygone era;

reminder of the last time you will ever encounter

canals, and gondoliers holding secrets.

 

We all have a past to ponder,

impressions we store and reflect upon.

Inside this aged person is a young girl,

a budding woman, a cauldron of passion

contained in the receding pith of redwoods,

eternity sheathed in precious rugged skin.

 

This, I say definitively, This I will take,

if it’s not spoken for.

And once again, I hear its history.

 

Some claim the trappings, the furnishings, the cash.

I choose memories, and each time my hands

smooth those jewel toned discs,

you will come back to me,

as if you never left.

 

2 comments on “We met”

  1. Beautiful, my dear.


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