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Lindsay French Apr 2014
Can we just stop and breathe
knowing that somewhere someday this will be just a fragile memory.

Can we just kiss,
So that every moment we live in will be led blissfully,
Blissfully unaware that soon this touch will be oceans away.

When I was dispensing emotions and tendrils of sadness that I couldn't even fathom.
My ferocity of denial was held in solitude,
until you spoke to me, quietly, I was suddenly trusting.

You took me by storm, an unexpected but truly authentic memory.

Your laugh, the softness of hair that gleams in light,
that face you make when you know you're guilty.
Even the shared passion for living momentarily, and eating chocolate that will melt slowly just how you melt into me.
A moment that is slowly passing, that will be tucked away into a long forgotten embodiment of the time to be.

So let's make a memory.
Of my fingernails digging into your back at the moment of utter rapture, of release, of love.

Of laughter erupting that time my father questioned your authenticity...
The walks in the park that seemed to permeate life forever.
The quick kisses, the passing touches, the silent stroking of hair and then the prickling of skin with anticipation.
These will be memories.

These words fleeting because they can never encompass a memory.

Because I'll be there for you,
When the rain starts to fall,
I'll be there for you,
Because I've been there before,
I'll be there for you,
Because you're there for me too.

Let's take this, let's use this, let's make a memory.
That is all we need, because soon this will be just that,
A memory.
  Apr 2014 Lindsay French
Lindee
I want to see my muscles and bones
I want to see the tissues that make up
this fractured body
I want to write my favorite
poems on the insides of my eyelids
so I see beauty when I blink
I want to unzip my skin and shake off the dust
gathered from years of being
unused and untouched
I want to inspect myself on the inside
to see my body work together when my brain sleeps
coauthoring my breath
instructing me to keep living.
I want to see the make up of me
and try to retrace my muscle memory into something new
string my tendons into bows
wrap my veins into vines around my mothers' garden
so she sees the tattered reasons why I can't help her bloom.
I want to see if there's more to me
or less of me
most importantly I want to see if you're still carved into my stomach
knots leaving scars.
I'm curious
if my insides are more beautiful than my outside

— The End —