I’d like to think
I know you now,
Like the end makes clarity.
Like the end of a book,
the wrap-up,
the meaning unveiled.
But this end is only the last chapter
of the meaning I make of you.
You live in me now, how I saw you,
Your echo that cannot produce anything new. True.
Your laugh, nervous but genuine,
Your hands spindly but precise like an artist.
Your thirst for conversation, even when you don’t know what to say.
You live in me as a person who always puts others first
Someone who cared what others thought
Even if you thought the world was wrought with meanness.
You live in me as the friend who had my back,
and trusted in me easily
told me your secrets
as if I was a blank page in a notebook,
that would quietly tuck into myself, holding some piece of you for later.
I suppose I am.
You live in me as someone who hurt too much and loved reading about hurt
too much.
You love beautiful, painful art.
Not unlike yourself.
You live in me as a friend
I talk to quietly in my head
Going about my work as normal,
And you speak back, only to me,
And I don’t feel so alone.
And I suppose you are the blank page now,
And I have written on you too.
