Memory
A free-verse poem on letting go.
You sometimes strike me as an idea,
lofty in nature but hard to realize.
You often come in my dreams,
taking me on a wild ride but leaving me bereft come morning.
You always visit me in a reverie,
clouding my thoughts and inspiring my muse.
And yet you meet me during the day,
leaving me lone on the sidewalk, waiting,
while you always sneak up on me at night, unwelcome,
inducing crying terrors and silent screams.
And yet I still wish you would meet me again,
as an idea, in a dream or as a passing fancy,
maybe even as an empty promise or paralyzing fear,
instead of resting still,
while I bring you flowers just to see you again.
Instead of slowly drifting off as a memory,
one that I reminisce again and again.
I wish you had talked to me more,
so that so that I would still hear your elusive voice when I close my eyes.
I wish we had met a lot more,
so that I could still trace your face with my hands, eyes closed.
And after years of longing,
I realize I need to set you free,
just so you can visit me again,
and this time,
I will welcome you as you come,
a thought, memory, voice or a smile,
with a smile of my own.
