Message

A combination of my words and ones that I have stolen from long-dead letters to me.

We talked about music, remember?

 

I do. I remember the light elated and pregnant with pollen falling in shafts,

I remember you, wavering and weakening skin but concrete voiced.

I remember knowing that it was momentous

but not having the courage to admit

that this was so because it was fleeting.

 

Memories of eccentricities and weird love driven(?)

interactions that are credible only by the magic.

I do remember. I remember that together, you and I

look funny in the right kind of funny way.

You, seated bright-frail; a translucent stained-glass man.

Me, half-leaning, part-standing, a halfhearted schoolgirl

in a lackadaisical rush to get nowhere.

 

I remember the words,

words that you knew that I didn’t,

words that I knew that you once did,

words that we knew together.

I remember you saying that it wasn’t strange or laughable,

the way that the words of others stayed in my head.

I remember you closing your eyes to see the pages,

I remember knowing then, how I looked when I did the same.

 

 

I forget your poetry,

especially the last two stanzas

especially the last

especially the last four lines

especially the last line.

 

I remember you asked.

 

Will You be my messenger, my Bex?

 

Reviews

[Gilad Levanon]

What what?
The dyslexic grammar nazi can write? Nice one. Lackadaisical. That's some first-class word power there. Respek.