I am a symbol
of the red-hot fire
burning in your heart.
From a store window
I witness the encounters,
the nervous sweaty palms,
the hellos and first butterflies
in your stomach.
From a vase at the front desk
of the movie theater
I feel your smile,
his smile,
your butterflies beating their wings
even harder.
From a bundle on the table,
I am your hope
as you laugh out loud
and clasp to your chest
a story
of defying gravity.
From his hand
in a driveway after dark
I see something rise in him
I am passed to you
and pressed between your bodies
I feel like I’m eavesdropping
I close my invisible eyes,
put my nonexistent hands
over the ears that no one sees,
and let you kiss
alone.
From the discarded room in back
I hear you shouting,
my meaning discarded
like last summer’s outgrown sandals.
I can tell I’m not needed
anymore.
I want to wilt.
I try to die.
But I know
there will be other lives.
There will be other lives
for another movie theater,
another hand gently gripping yours,
another bouquet of bright red dreams
against the omnipresent gray.
There will be other lives
for another him,
another you,
for bittersweet fumblings
in the backseats of cars.
I keep myself alive.
For there will be other lives.
Maya Hanson (mye3 poet)
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rose-157/
