Aureations

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    Untitled

    I watch you on the other side
    as the kerosene begins to seep
    into the deeply carved seams and cracks
    in the wood of our footbridge.
    Laughter echoes through the canyon,
    off of the stone embracing the warm fog,
    and through the vivid humidity streams
    a myriad of memories,
    in rainbows produced by rememberance light.

    I weep quietly, and you do not see,
    you are just a still-life after a year.
    Your wavy hair, untouched, lay still
    while winds whip around me,
    dragging me from connection.

    God knows I miss you,
    but I do not know God.
    He should help me.
    He should guide me.
    He should make it all right
    to know you again.
    He should put the words in my mouth:
    “Hello, I knew you just a moment ago.
    Can you hear me now?”

    For all the things you never did,
    should I be ungrateful?
    You were a mirror,
    perhaps too close.
    My fingertips on our reflection
    seemed to leave no print,
    seemed to be a vain whisper.

    When bridges are burned
    and all is ash,
    is rebuilding a track
    backwards,
    a straying from the nature of time?
    Or is it a looking forward
    to looking back on who we were
    when we thought we could not be any better
    and thought we were worthy of death and life,
    all at once.

    • 23 November 2012
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  • Amber Cunningham's Space

    Currently a student at Emerson College, Class of 2014. BA Writing, Literature and Publishing. Specializing in Creative Writing, Book Design, and Editorial.

  • About Amber Cunningham

    Currently a student at Emerson College, Class of 2014. BA Writing, Literature and Publishing. Specializing in Creative Writing, Book Design, and Editorial.

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