My Poet

Looseleaf thoughts trailed behind me as I moved between moments. Onto the next will little regard for the last. Carelessly discarded attention to detail left a world crafted by outline, but devoid of color A chapter’s end, always nearing as I furiously scribble out another shorthand experience Plagued by the wall clock’s siege, pulverizing my moments into powder. Pouring through the hourglass Another sunset, another night without reflection, another day with not enough time The roots of mortality begin to emerge in the corner of my eyes. The changing leaves of my tree of life Time was short, soon leaves will fall Time was now And then she appeared Her sweet song of summer found my ears and I wondered into her timeline Everything seemed different there, alive, full, colorful She lived her life as a poet, deliberately accents curating a feeling, A sense to pause if the world needs to catch up. She hung her pages on a clothesline to season in the summer breeze, filled in her blanks with calligraphy, then waited for a blue moon to illustrate Our gazes collided, and she went straight to my story, deep inside She looked for my seams and slowly traced her fingers along the stitches, asked about the tears in the leather I’d never stopped to notice She read me with intensity, then dogeared her favorite pages A blurry world came to life with a million points of color when she splashed synesthesia over my imagination. I felt an ambush of understanding She cared for me without my permission The sun felt warm The day felt longer Fast changed to full I felt, everything She was much She was my poet and she wrote my next chapter as a love poem