#124

November 4, 2011 § 10 Comments

Do you remember
What you told me? That I couldn’t be
A writer, not yet
At least,
Because I wrote about nothing
Concrete
I had musicality
(Everything
Is music to me, you know) – so it
Sounded lovely
But would not, could not
Remind you
Of how your lover’s pillow
always smelled of
Cherry cordials – I was
Fourteen, had never held a hand and couldn’t have
Dreamed
Why I should write about anyone’s lover
At all.
Luckily, I am a Taurus
(or at least, I used to be)
And was stubborn enough
To write anyways
Today
I am twenty-three
Older
Wiser
(So still never writing about pillows
Or lovers) and would like
To tell you just how wrong you were,
But despite
That desire, I also learned
That you were right.
My eighth grade graphite was purely
Potential
It means nothing today
Empty
Of true meaning
Or memory
Eventually,
I would learn to write from experiences
I just had to
Have some first
Those flowery lines were the flint
I sharpened my pencils
And my skills
Against
And these pieces now
Have meaning.
But somehow,
I think ten years from now
I may write you this same letter again

(For more from the Do You Remember series, see #107 and #109).

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