Sometimes, I think of you

A long time ago, when we were both kids, I loved you- because I thought you knew me. 

It was years ago now, and I still see your smile as you toss your hair behind your shoulders and laugh. I didn’t know I helped you to be like that- happy. 

Now, I can’t see you because you’re different- we’re no longer kids, and you no longer like me the same as I miss you. 

There isn’t any way to change any of this, because when you knew me, we danced under the stars and floated up to the ceiling- and you didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to, because you made me dinner and let me cut tomatoes- and I picked you flowers and you put their petals in your hair- and we were together, always. 

But now, when I call you on the telephone- like an old, old, friend.. you never hang up, but you never pick up either. It’s because when you saw me running after the moon and Jupiter, you knew that I would almost always fall. You never told me, but I wouldn’t have cared. 

I bury the past now. I rip the photographs that remind me of time- all but the one of you, sitting on the library roof- because promises are things you hold onto, even when they mean nothing. I never look at my books and my stories anymore, because it makes me think about everything we would talk for hours about over tea and scones with our snow-covered winter coats draped over the seats.

I have a new life now, one where it never snows. I live next to the beaches, with white sand and people with blue eyes. I sketch boys and girls running around barefoot, like we used to do. I go to the city once a week to look at the lovely paintings that you always wanted to see, concerts that never end on a single note.

Sometimes, I think of you. Sometimes, I listen to the song that I made you sing for me- sometimes, I go back to the library to run my hands on the pages that your hands once touched. Sometimes, I even dare to wish you were here.