You were not always a part of my life. by SilverInkblot, literature
Literature
You were not always a part of my life.
I imagine you at your father’s grave.
I imagine you knelt, roses gripped
loosely; I imagine your eyes were dry;
I imagine you left and didn’t look
back.
I imagine you in the steel mill.
I imagine you worked in dirty
tanktops and jeans; I imagine you
swung sledgehammers like croquet
mallets; I imagine you wiping away
the heat from your forehead and leaving
to collapse into sleep.
I imagine you as a gymnast; I imagine
you as a schoolteacher; I imagine you
as a child, fresh faced and fearless.
I imagine you after the car crash,
after the wedding, after the surgery,
after your heart stops beating.
I imagine you in a life without m
This ache defines my body –
crosses, uncrosses my legs, traces
fingers along curvatures unmapped
by foreign travelers.
This want defines my time –
turns sleep into daydreams, matches
my schedule to yours, walking
beside, one shy footstep at a time.
This love defines my life –
shapes my body to be softer,
my time to be flexible, my heart
to be richer. The ache and want
become sharper, but calmed, content
in being lesser expressions
of something far greater.