To the one that I still love.

A Poem by Patch Silver

This started with a moment.
Isn't that what we are? Moments?
From the couch from where she kissed my cheek,
to the tennis field where she left me.
They were all moments.
It was not life nor death that tore the cheap skin across my chest,
Nor the fall at her doorstep,
the long nights above the second floor,
long readings or poetry and stories she adored.
And how I chewed her up and spat her out,

no matter the act, all acting loud.
Ten miles walks, the gifting of books,
flowers well spent, fingers that shook,
desperate attempts, Wednesday night church,
razors that loved, loving that hurt.
From room one zero three, to the heights of 309,
Conversing aloud amongst the riddles and rhymes,
the unsightly mess, the gifts never given,
Valentines day, birthdays and Christmas,
the backseat of her car, to the table and such,
these moments we hate, but we love them so much.
Whether her hair be tied up, or mine shaken and stirred,
nights kept awake, mornings unheard,
her smile, skin, voice and kiss,
I can't think of what more that I have to force myself not to miss.
But I have not stolen nor sold such moments as these,
for she keeps them as well, clutched in her dreams.
And although these moments have been strung and undone,
I have gathered them all, for they're what I have become.
We both have these moments, to hold and to crutch,
for we know that these moments,
help us when we miss what became of us.