third year baily reese

photo by atithi Patel — photo by atithi patel

The time reads, 4:03 - the repetitive time of day that I seem to see every single time it hits. I’d recently explained to someone the meaningless yet meaningful significance of the time of day I hold dear, the one I happen to be drawn to or seem to see in patterns. Then I wonder– whenever they see 4:03, will they think of me? After conversation fades, and communication becomes few and far between— what will be left of what I was to them?

Through laughter and tears, the best of times and the worst of times,

you can’t control what people take and leave behind.

The parts that linger and stay stuck to the skin of remembrance– a membrane,

coming hot around the corner in a blue wave of unexpected sentimentality

They hit you heavy. A bowling ball on the guardrails,

when you think they’re gone they come back around the bend.

Like taste aversion, a permanent pucker. Silhouettes of their figure,

favorite sports teams, a shade of red hair, the smell of cigarettes.

It’s a terrifying thought to think how you can’t control

what other people choose to remember about you.

Taking and passing and sharing their subjective interpretation,

Your existence in the palm of their hands.

But there’s the possibility of the warm ones, soft smiles in secret

Throw the head back and release the guttural, “AHA!”

Pangs in the chest or flutters in the stomach, fond of it all nevertheless.

Their smile, the band UMO, a sense of adventure, – you love(d) them.

There’s peace in never knowing, the boundless ambiguity that comes with the passerby

The ignorance of a good sort; is it bliss or does it keep you numb from feeling?

But if you always knew what they held onto and what they left behind,

would you change?

Ties: Time after Time