It slipped, tucked between pages
used for memories scribed in words
recused in my palm
veins delicately lined,
too narrow for wings
a wisp of memory past
There were more
Tumbling from thumbed pages
not yet filled, a puzzle
asking to be stitched
As days press on, memory fades
What once seemed vital, pressing
Now something to emend
Free of past sin I see your face
in tiffany whispers,
a bittersweet elegy
This morning I picked up my journal. It had been a while since my pen kissed the page. Life got in the way. As I lifted it with one hand something floated out. I caught it in the palm of my other hand.
A beautiful orange crepe paper. I stared at it trying to remember. It must have been something I was passionate about to keep it tucked away. As I set the journal down, more pieces appeared and a familiar sense came over me. I saw myself placing an orange lily into the middle of my journal, blank pages, thick petals, wondering if it would flatten without breaking. A desperate sadness washed over me.
What was I to remember?
I carefully lifted each petal off the page and placed them gently on my desk. Yes, it must have been a passion to keep this flower. The stamens, each a separate filament of something that was once whole. Dried so delicately and perfectly transparent. But what was I seeing?
I took a little pause. Michael.
You were taken too soon, my friend. I miss you. I never got to tell you how much I loved you.
Tell those around you how much you love them. Time is short.
I love you,
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