You are my secret, waiting to be told.
They ask me if I am in love and I speak of
blue skies and white clouds.
No, they don't believe me.
Not for one second, they say.
Listen carefully, I tell them, You can hear
the sound of the clouds as they journey across
the sky. And then I run to catch up with you.
It was in this room that we kissed, in this store that we held hands, this restaurant that we fought, this theater that we watched out first movie together, this scarf you bought me, this dress I might never wear, these earrings you helped me put on and this wall that we painted together, and those people, your friends.
They are not painful reminders. They are triggers of association. That they are linked to you is enough consolation. That even though we no longer are together that there is still this. A testimony that all happened was real. A reminder of what we once had. One must not remember, they warn us, unless there is something to be gained from it. But his remembering is all I have. Even if remembering is wasted energy. These things make them real.
Or who would imagine that any of this actually happened. Or that it is over.
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