She made me
grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches,
and fed me lines and lies and fairy tales,
and romances and sexual tension,
and tragedy upon tragedy
with bloodshed, miseries, and histories,
and sweet music, and dancing with beautiful instruments,
in all her many wrinkles and scars,
within and without the fabric of time.
She loved me dearly once,
long long long ago,
and gave me a temporary home
to call my own
for awhile when no where felt like home
and no one saw my true inner smile,
with my toes in wet sand,
and a beach with the tide that hadn’t come in,
waves crashing too for miles,
echoing through Mamore Gap and the castles,
strumming to the tune of romantic ideals
and poems and dramas
long lost and forgotten.
Her glories
and sad stories,
her roaming heather,
her love for nature,
her sweet naivete and surrender,
to all that was pure.
She was me once, one summer
on a land pure green it could have been gold.
I see her sometimes
in a recent picture
in every reflection
deep staring into a mirror
and there I am underneath
all this make-up covered exterior
somewhere in between
the girl that is
and the girl that had been
forever lost and forever gone
and forever always called into existence
immortal, transposed in time
called up when I simply want to remember
myself as I once was
sometimes.
