I met her on my fingertips
while I was writing a poem.
This is a memory that never was
She was arranging words and thoughts
and doing things to my heart
that changed me.
This is a memory that was.
She is always there
but not always visible,
like the shadow of the sun.
She holds my screams
in her arms.
She is the easy chair
of my life,
where things come out right
and the longing for a kiss
burns all night.
This is a memory that was.
One night,
we were by the water
and the waves
poured past my walls.
I reached over
to kiss her,and the heart of the sea
filled me with its life.
This is a memory that never was.
She holds my pain
on my fingertips
and teaches them ballet-
my poetry.
Oh, where do I end and she begins?
I had a memory once,
I think,
of holding her
outside of a 7/11;
she’s crying because her nana died,
and I was crying because I never met her nana.
It was October and the leaves
were the confetti of sorrow,
drifting past our tears.
This was a memory that never was.
Maybe somewhere on my fingertips
there’s a wish she has to kiss.
Oh, maybe somewhere on my fingertips
she has a wish to kiss.
To be born with a touch
or a kiss or a word,
would kill my death forever,
for her love is a sword.
–for A.C.
