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Rearranged
The background is loud and crowded with plots;
blended conversations, a threat to my thoughts.
Clusters of shapes invade my blank space,
shifting without an object to chase.
You float like a figure, just passing through,
with the lighting too sheen to hold on to you.
When the background is different, you have changed
like an undone puzzle, rearranged.
Do you remember me, who sat at your table?
One leg was wobbly, grape juice unstable.
The roll edges were crisp but hollowish inside
like an unreceived hug, uneven beside.
You spoke about me, but never to me
as if autistics weren't part of humanity.
My mouth was mute, but yet my mind spoke.
I pondered your uneven sleeves like an obscure joke.
Is this still you, in a blue tee, without your mom?
My hands are waxy like Grandma's lip balm.
Speaking is arduous; how does one say, "Hi?"
What if it's not you in the background of my eye?
10-16-2024
Copyright ©
Juliet Ligon
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