I read a poem you wrote
About someone, her lashes, your dreams of her, how you love her.
I read the poem and wished it was for me.
You inferred hearing a song which gave you a tug,
And I remember how we talked about songs,
How we like analyzing lyrics and loathe cheap, pretentious odes.
And I remember the way you’d look at me when you hear your favorite
monologue of a song.
You wrote that she looked like a zombie and described her eyes.
It was that description that pulled something within me
Something about those eyes that made me think of mine.
I read that you love all of her but don’t know how to show her,
And that you’d go to the farthest places to dream of her.
You wrote something about how she loved the sky and how that
Makes you believe in something you refuse to see.
And how you’d run from place to place just to see dreams with her in
them.
And you’ll go back for her.
I read this poem that you wrote about her
The time you left for some place better.
A place of promise… for fulfilling your dreams.
And I remembered, while reading, how you told me once about a dream you
had,
A dream where I was in it.
I don’t remember much but for one detail you said
That in your dream we were both riding on a motorcycle,
You, the driver, while I ride behind you
On some joyride, in someplace within your dreams.
And I can just imagine wearing a white dress with the wind blowing my
hair while laughing
With you
I don’t know what made me think of that…
Perhaps it’s the memory of something,
A photograph perhaps
Of your wedding, with your bride,
On a motorcycle.
And all I can do is smile as I write this
As I don’t desire for much…
Only that I wish
That the poem was written for me.
