Brilliant Annie,
with dried watercolor on her left thumb, and
charcoal smudge just below her elbow
who are you painting now?
Heart-shaped lips and
round, rose cheeks -
I've almost forgotten the sound of your voice -
what do you whisper in your sleep?
I remember your shadow perfectly, Annie,
I spent years frozen there,
I know its curves and the way
it moves when you laugh.
I'll admit I hated it there,
but I could never quite keep away from you.
Lovely Annie,
with guitar-calloused fingers
and songs tucked beneath your tongue,
who do you write about now?
Maybe you write about me,
like I do you,
maybe I appear in your dreams
and touch your hand,
like you do in mine.
Sweet Annie,
do you still put your index finger to your nose
and smile when you're listening?
Do you still go to concerts of bands
you barely know?
Do you still push your glasses up the bridge of your nose
and tuck your hair behind your ear
when you're thinking too hard?
Of course I shouldn't be thinking of you,
Annie,
after all these years
I'm hundreds of miles away
and you're probably smoking in a parking lot
thousands of years from thinking of me.
Beautiful Annie,
you probably don't even remember me
but I could never forget you.