35
Today, I wait in queue at the local baker
behind a boy in a plain white cotton tee
His back—slender, runner-lean—
just like yours used to be
My basket’s a mess— with mangoes and
useless things
when memory starts to bite, what if you'd
made it to thirty five
would your shoulders carry the sun this
way too?
I breathe near his neck, envying the quiet
grace of his shoulder blades,
jealous of him, for you
Hands in pockets, he’s tied to morning
pulled gently into the day.
That shirt, becomes the canvas for sunlight,
turns him golden by noon, silvered
by moonlight,
blushed with dawn.
The hours touch him freely, fully
and he doesn’t hide.
Because beauty, the kind memory clings to,
needs so little: a stretch of cotton across a
back, a still horizon aching gently always,
for more light
@eatingpopcorns
Would your shoulders carry the sun this way too? 🥺
That's beautiful and poignantly painful.
Your words are like a rich tapestry of emotions, from love, memory, sorrow, to the unanswered questions and what ifs of grief.
The calmness in your words.
The contrast.
The honesty.
Your words made me cry.
Thank you.
You have a gift 💜💕
@Amanda84 Thank you for your kind words. This was written in memory of a dear friend.