by River F., 16
You came in with the spring long before I did but still you waited for me in the summer.
The rain hammered into the ground, new life began, and the grass became greener than ever.
We bonded as much as time would allow us to,
I was ardent just to be with you.
My laugh echoed through the summer sky.
I was so young I still believed I could fly.
You chased me around the park in your cutoff denim shorts,
grass stains on my knees and our smiles wide beyond belief.
The leaves fell and our connection changed into shades of orange and yellow.
We’re both older now, but I’m not sure I’m any wiser than I was when I first arrived.
You curled up on the sofa with the TV and I stayed slotted in next to you.
The first weekend of December: tape cladden boxes everywhere being ripped open without a care,
you gave me half of your gingerbread man to share,
a Christmas tree shining in the corner, bathing the room in its light just like you used to do.
It was so cold that year that I believed it would snow.
It was then that you had told us you were leaving,
abandoning us for a country that didn’t have any of our charms or our flaws,
that didn’t have any of our suppressed emotions and our regret,
and leaving us in a house that didn’t contain any of yours.
I wished upon anything I could set my sight on that you’d change your mind,
that you’d let me have one more year with the knowledge that you were here.
I come in with the summer and I wait for you in the new year,
even though I’m aware by now that you won’t be here.
I’m older now, and I’ve gotten wiser,
since I buried the ugly part of me that wanted to beg and scream for you to come back,
the part of me that wanted to forget you for the hope of a less painful year.
When you come back this time, I don’t think I’ll stay to watch you leave.
England, UK
Bridge Ink 