it was a love like a summer morning,
the breeze coming through the windows,
the sunlight drowning out the darkness,
and laughter
coming from the most beautiful woman
he had ever known.
it was things like these
that he yearned to write about.
each page was dated july 2011
and her name was written
by feeble hands,
blue smudges every third letter.
she wanted to feel alive,
and he wanted to plant flowers
in places she thought had died.
he wanted to forget her and remember her
and he didn't know which was more painful.
the shade of her hair no longer existed
in his scattered mind.
her voice sometimes traveled highways
and met him at intersections
and bid him a safe drive,
but he couldn't recognize it.
he was disconnected from her
and he couldn't change that.
he sat under a blanket of stars,
while she lay under a bed of soil.
and everything he wanted to write about
was lying six foot under,
trapped in a mahogany box.
it was this love like a summer morning
that flowed from pen to paper,
and let flowers grow around her body.
because after all, she wanted to feel alive,
and the least he could do
was let her live through the fibers
of his tattered notebook
titled, ‘things to forget’.
For two people I am ecstatic to tell you the story of.