Writing

November 11th,

I entered the boutique downtown,

searching for a forever friend.

I scoured all the racks,

red,

mustard,

lavender.

Then I saw him,

Blue, 

slightly faded

We used to be seven

My curls used to be sunshine

Colored

You used to be stubborn

Naive stubborn.

The powder used to hit our knees

On the days

When we could eat lunch in four bites

It’s:

twisted

crinkled like

the leaves

they’re frail now,

on the edge

of not there.

scrolling photos

feverishly 

My funny little friend

appearing at my door

day in and day out

to say hello to me.

So intelligent

yet so stupid

chasing after fallen leaves and blades of grass

lying on the doormat

I see the way you care for everyone else,

More than yourself.

Picking up every broken piece of glass

Because you know that if you don’t

Who will?

I see the way you love,

Not just through words

I hold the photos
 of memories of the forgotten.

I sit, on an old shelf

For people to admire

I sit all day and night.

No other purpose in the world.

The people smile. But not at me.