un·in·vit·ed
- Ryan Schwaar
- Apr 3, 2024
- 1 min read
Updated: Apr 6, 2024
In another life, we met briefly at a concert.
I watched you walk away then returned to my conversation.
In another, I saw you on a train.
Mischievous blue eyes playing tag until they found a playful connection.
In yet another, we were two eggs in a basket,
Our fragile shells Carefully placed side by side on a cloth.
And now I see we missed our window.
I saw the way you laughed.
I heard of your abandon,
the sidewalks you danced on.
We walk on the same sidewalks now,
but I'm the only one dancing.
Who taught you to receive stories silently,
to mistrust input, even your own?
Who made the hair on your arms stand up
so sharply that they now cut the hands that try to hold you?
Who let you keep your perfect smile
but told you not to use it?
Who pulled the laughter from your throat
and the bounce from your step?
And where did they store it?
Who made you supply all of your own affection
to the point where other's affirmation is redundant?
Who told you that getting old is bleak and unaffectionate,
that hope is naïve?
Who tied their love so tightly around you
that flowing braids now look like knotted ropes?
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Woww, beautiful as always. I love this imagery -- it all plays in the space between something external I can admire and drapes that form to my own experiences -- things I have a hard time distinguishing from my own memories after I read it.
-LS