Memories

Her glories and sad stories, her roaming heather, her love for nature, her sweet naivete and surrender, to all that was pure.

 She made me
 grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches,
 and fed me lines and lies and fairy tales,
 and romances and sexual tension,
 and tragedy upon tragedy
 with bloodshed, miseries, and histories,
 and sweet music, and dancing with beautiful instruments,
 in all her many wrinkles and scars,
 within and without the fabric of time.
  
 She loved me dearly once,
 long long long ago,
 and gave me a temporary home
 to call my own
 for awhile when no where felt like home
 and no one saw my true inner smile,
 with my toes in wet sand,
 and a beach with the tide that hadn’t come in,
 waves crashing too for miles, 
 echoing through Mamore Gap and the castles,
 strumming to the tune of romantic ideals
 and poems and dramas
 long lost and forgotten.
  
 Her glories
 and sad stories,
 her roaming heather,
 her love for nature,
 her sweet naivete and surrender,
 to all that was pure.
  
 She was me once, one summer
 on a land pure green it could have been gold.
 I see her sometimes 
 in a recent picture
 in every reflection
 deep staring into a mirror
 and there I am underneath
 all this make-up covered exterior
 somewhere in between
 the girl that is
 and the girl that had been
 forever lost and forever gone
 and forever always called into existence
 immortal, transposed in time
 called up when I simply want to remember
 myself as I once was 
 sometimes.