Does she keep my letters?
Does she even remember them?
Would my name jostle anything
in the depths of her mind, her heart?
I have each of hers together, collected, hoarded like gold.
I don’t often read them,
or even look at them,
but knowing they are there makes me exist,
proof that I didn’t make her up,
didn’t invent all of these memories that I’ve held for years quick to my chest,
defending them against all possibility of loss.
And yet, they are tainted by time and hope,
glossy eyes and drink.
Some are completely forgotten,
some temporarily forgotten and something may trigger them yet.
What does she think of when she is waiting in airports,
when she is not thinking of music she is listening to,
but only absorbing.
What is she doing now?
What would I do if she stepped off the plane right in front of me?
– May 1, 2012