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.