She paints memories like pictures
faded colours and sharp corners
lost photos and forgotten letters
kept somewhere behind her heart
brought back to life by rough fingers
sliding quickly across slick grey keys of her keyboard

She collects them like butterflies
pinning them down with poetry
nudging them, tilting them until they're just right
I am jealous of those moments
the ones she has woven so deftly into the beauty of her words
that the two have become indistinguishable in the soft white glow of my monitor

It's the details that get me
the ones that catch the sunlight like tin cans in the desert
like two missing diamonds
and twisting pop tops till they crack
on a night that wound on without end

She is memory, history, and meditation
but its not about where her eyes have been
but what her heart has felt, fluttering against her chest in pain and excitement
the taste of six kisses before goodbye
and a last lingering look through the rain, and cloudy winter windows
the goodbyes and hellos, and the moments that fall in between
the ones she picks up and puts carefully away
then places
just so
down the length of the page

AcB 04.20.01