lost list

This list grows.

The photos,
the days,
the years,
the things
that made us
-us.

It wanders,
meanders,
mews and winds,
and
pushes against
the backs of my eyes
to trick me into
false comfort.

It sighs and flutters
gingham over denim.
I sew a patch on that
place where sunlight
would show through
if the sound of a snarl
wasn't already filling
that space you
OCCUPIED
when we were twelve
- before you learned to
drive your father's car
and we jumped the curb
into a summer night.

It scratches vinyl
and skips pages
that would make sense
of the storysong
we sang when we said it would

all
turn
out.




©Michelle Scofield, September 13, 2011 All Rights Reserved