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whitneywc
whitneywc
American wannabe.
Poems2
Followers10
Words207
I have a picture of you tucked away in a book, which one, I cannot remember. I miss the softness of your smile, the way I would watch you meet the same old boring world with a simple delight. You have the cutest little button nose, you would say, as I giggled my way across the mangy avocado green sofa, an innocence I still strive to remember. A seventh grade dance photograph of me hung in the same spot, chair after chair, on the white texturized wall until the day you died, A faded silver toned cross with clustered ruby red beads hung on an old nylon string around your neck, also until the day you died. I stare at both and wonder if you can forgive me I won't go rummaging the bookshelf in search of the only print of you I call my own. I'll hang this cross somewhere in my line of vision, think about the times we met before, the ones in this form, I cannot remember. I'll move from this butterfly shaped cushion in the corner of my room out into the kitchen, pour steaming water of over freshly ground beans, whip eggs with a fork like you used to do, eat, go about my day. I'll wait patiently -- almost without thinking, for you to fall into my lap as I pull an old text from the dusty wooden shelf. Then, and only then, will I sit and dream of the day our physical hearts emulate the same space once more.
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Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
whitneywc
Grandmother
I have a picture of you tucked away in a book, which one, I cannot remember. I miss the softness of your smile, the way I would watch you meet the same old boring world with a simple delight. You have the cutest little button nose, you would say, as I giggled my way across the mangy avocado green sofa, an innocence I still strive to remember. A seventh grade dance photograph of me hung in the same spot, chair after chair, on the white texturized wall until the day you died, A faded silver toned cross with clustered ruby red beads hung on an old nylon string around your neck, also until the day you died. I stare at both and wonder if you can forgive me I won't go rummaging the bookshelf in search of the only print of you I call my own. I'll hang this cross somewhere in my line of vision, think about the times we met before, the ones in this form, I cannot remember. I'll move from this butterfly shaped cushion in the corner of my room out into the kitchen, pour steaming water of over freshly ground beans, whip eggs with a fork like you used to do, eat, go about my day. I'll wait patiently -- almost without thinking, for you to fall into my lap as I pull an old text from the dusty wooden shelf. Then, and only then, will I sit and dream of the day our physical hearts emulate the same space once more.
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59
Somewhere between the words that we speak and the echoes of what remains unsaid, there is an opening waiting for some truth to be revealed. Consider this. In the morning, love is two particles waving in and out of reality, two particles beyond the conceptions of space and time.  In the night, love tip-toes across the moon, and at some random point seeps into the dreams of those who sleep alone. I was sleeping alone the night you passed away.  I left many things echoing in the opening where the unsaids go to peacefully die.  You know, the imaginary space and how it all dissolves somewhere between your perception and mine.   I went to sleep the night after you died, and you were waiting for me in a canyon covered with gold.  The water, fresh and crisp, and we could not stop jumping from the top of the waterfall to the clear green pool below.   There were no words between us, no conceptions of space or time.  I remember the feeling of the sparkling paint and foreign images engraved into the gold stone walls, how we leaped from part of the canyon to the next.   I remember this, the last collision of your perception and mine, an opening in an imaginary canyon where the unsaids go because they don't want to die. I think this means you forgive me, even though I haven't yet committed the crime. I'm still considering this. Somewhere between the things we believe are real and the things that do actually exist, there is an opening, a canyon, and a beautiful waterfall.   I think you still visit there from time to time, and I would like to go once more, too. The only problem is, every time I try to speak, the truth forgets, the opening is dissolved.
0
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 4:05 PM UTC
whitneywc
Imaginary Space
Somewhere between the words that we speak and the echoes of what remains unsaid, there is an opening waiting for some truth to be revealed. Consider this. In the morning, love is two particles waving in and out of reality, two particles beyond the conceptions of space and time.  In the night, love tip-toes across the moon, and at some random point seeps into the dreams of those who sleep alone. I was sleeping alone the night you passed away.  I left many things echoing in the opening where the unsaids go to peacefully die.  You know, the imaginary space and how it all dissolves somewhere between your perception and mine.   I went to sleep the night after you died, and you were waiting for me in a canyon covered with gold.  The water, fresh and crisp, and we could not stop jumping from the top of the waterfall to the clear green pool below.   There were no words between us, no conceptions of space or time.  I remember the feeling of the sparkling paint and foreign images engraved into the gold stone walls, how we leaped from part of the canyon to the next.   I remember this, the last collision of your perception and mine, an opening in an imaginary canyon where the unsaids go because they don't want to die. I think this means you forgive me, even though I haven't yet committed the crime. I'm still considering this. Somewhere between the things we believe are real and the things that do actually exist, there is an opening, a canyon, and a beautiful waterfall.   I think you still visit there from time to time, and I would like to go once more, too. The only problem is, every time I try to speak, the truth forgets, the opening is dissolved.
Continue reading...
12