Letter to the Reader

The golden peach sun paints the viridian ground

outside my old cream colored apartment.

As my eyes adjust to the sight before me,

I remember when I met you beneath the

oak tree years ago when our eyes still

looked fresh like the crisp morning dew.

 

It seems like yesterday when our backs were

straight as the linear curve in calculus

you said I loved so much because it was

rational. You said it reminded you of my

personality—rigid and predictable

while you were full of chaos.

 

I know I was not who you expected

to have besides you, but honestly

we were stronger than ionic bonds

and unafraid to share the emotions

that stirred commotions deep within

our souls that taught us how to trust.

 

All of a sudden though, your eyes

faded away from what stood before

you as I struggled to resist changing

like the seasons in the South. You said I

was different, which makes me wonder

if I changed the parts of me that mattered.

 

Yeah I started to evolve and write rhymes

that I believed would help keep me on track

on this ride called life we used to navigate

together. Yet now we are captains of different routes

traversing different longitudes and latitudes

while I stare up looking for clues on how we fell through.

 

It’s funny how people are willing to lack communication

yet hope they stay in the mind of the other’s imagination.

We can’t recreate the past—we learned that from Gatsby.

But we can hit the green light and be a part of future memory.

I would align the stars simply to cross paths once again

so we could start over, embrace, and begin to make amends.

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