marks & memory
all the books on the shelf,
all of them were mine.
but she left her mark on each one,
each line that she highlighted in pink pen or
her way of remembering,
of pronouncing importance and available logic.
these are the things she left behind:
markings between bent and dog-eared pages,
and the beading around the scars of my soul.
i am growing older now,
the weeds of time are choking my identity and luster.
i need to mow down the barriers that i built alone.
i guess i let her peer through the trellis walls.
once or twice or maybe a bit more.
she turned on the blinkers and turned right into me
well, i let her, didn't i?
and now i wonder if it was all just a ploy,
a way to get my attention and my coffee bean tree,
a way to step inside and mess things up,
then walk away.
i have places to go,
these boxes to pack,
a train to catch and ride and forget on.
like i could ever forget her.