I can still recall your face,
as the shore absorbs my stride.
I met you at your resting place:
the treehouse underneath blue sky.
In that hideout, in the tree,
along the makeshift wooden door,
I had set up across from me
those photos from the time before:
The hallway where we’d stop to speak;
the bus stop where we had to part;
our secret meetings at the creek;
my notebook with your scribbled heartโ
These thoughts intoxicate my steps
as I walk along the shore.
A thousand years it seems were kept
in pictures on our treehouse door:
The classroom where we held back laughter;
the swing-set where we settled bets;
your locker where I marveled at her;
the dance you wanted to forget…
Remember when we jumped the stream
and raced along the broken tracks?
We lost our breaths and had to lean
against each other’s heaving backs;
We picked out faces in the clouds.
(My favorite lays there in the grass.)
Your laughter finds me even now,
it’s framed and frozen by the glass.
This glass that panes your final face
has taken your place by my side;
There is no blue sky to embrace
after you suddenly died.
My sleep has suffered what has passed,
as late night sunlight signals dawn;
for I framed all your photographs
a long time after she had gone…
Regret has set my every step,
as I walk across the sand.
At every footfall I reflect
on how it was to hold your hand.
I wish you were here on the shore.
This horizon isn’t blue.
The wood has rotted on our treehouse door.
I guess I won’t be seeing you.