I can’t seem to get rid of you, can I?
You’re in the voice of the singer on the radio--you introduced me to her music. You’re in the ornaments on my tree--you made me one. You’re in the moves that I dance--you taught me some.
You’re in the box under my bed full of everything we’ve ever done. There are the notes passed in class, the empty chocolate wrappers, the souvenirs, the photographs. I never did tell you about all the things I’ve kept. I thought they’d make me look creepy. So it turns out, that didn’t matter because when we pass by in these high school halls, you don’t let me see your face.
Yet I seem to see your face is everywhere.
In the giggling faces of my new friends. In the fleeting moments when I see your sister at the store. In the class projects I don’t get to do with you anymore. In the box under my bed that I don’t dare look at. I haven’t looked at in a year, perhaps even longer. Because if I do, your face won’t ever go away and I’ll be forced to stare at a smile that isn’t meant for me anymore. And a laugh that I can’t share. And a ghost I can’t hug.
YOU ARE READING
Struggle and Strive
SpiritualePart 3 in the "Contemplative Compositions" series. This is where I put my every random thought that may or may not deserve to be emblazoned on your screen. (In this edition I will probably also post some prose/flashfiction from a blog I'm writing w...
