Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash
The Thing Is
Being pretty is one thing. I see your hair
in waves, chestnut brown, almost besides
the point. Pretty is one thing. I would reach
into you somehow, to feel the waves that
scatter the surface, that lie knotted beneath.
But that isn't how it works. It's not working.
You sit there and I'm a ruler or two away.
Perhaps a yardstick. Distance makes the heart
flatten, like a pressed flower in an unreturned
book. I say, okay. Where have we seen this
all before? But the thing is. You're here.
You sit at the table and I'll remember you
this way. When the fair amount of sun that
runs along the kitchen makes light of
the fences, the temple, and the clouds.
When the periwinkle sweater you have on
with rows of braids appears in the group chat.
A dream. Your back. When there is a photo
and you're missing, I know where you went when
shots were taken. I've got a beak-like mind.
It snaps memories from the ground outside.
Call me a freak, a sneak, a spy. That said.
They're not so bad. They taste like rosemary.