I left pieces of myself for you,
proof that I had been there -
pink petals on a resting bench,
your first initial spelled out
in blossoms that had fallen like snow -
I knew you’d know.
I hid for a time in the corner
of the fountain where we kissed -
missed the hum of your words,
the things I’d heard while the water
coursed down like a curtain -
I’d been so very certain.
I let the ocean taste the salt
of my skin. And tears, of course -
they all married in the waves,
honeymooned in seashells.
I judged from what they heard -
I knew they’d pass the word.
I haunted all the places we had been
as the seasons slipped me by -
at a playground in the Spring,
I let the world spin me ’round,
I picked a pumpkin for you in the Fall -
then hid it in the vines that sprawled.
I told the golden field to whisper
in the wind when you passed -
I quoted lyrics to the grass
so that the right song
might spring into your mind -
among the others that I’d left behind.
I captured moments of my life on film,
in all the minutes ticking by -
the photons sticking firm in stories,
images to flirt with the rest of the world
but that began their lives, I always knew -
as hidden love letters to you.
Labels: Danielle Hughson