Keep Art Alive :: Art by Amy-Friend
“Growing old is getting old.
I often find myself here thinking,
about the birds,
and past loves that flew away or started sinking.
And it’s crazy here without you,
I used to think this all was ours.
We’d stay up late,
debate on how we’d find our way,
say it’s all up in the stars.”
The memories of the you when you were with me, and the me when I was with you, they are fading into a sepia tone finish, like the photos of my Grandmother that smelled like moth balls and the Avon perfume she used to wear.
You are fading fast, faster than expected, faster than I even want. Still, sometimes I flick the lighter off and on, not igniting anything in particular, but just to feel the heat and see the dance of light, and its inevitable fade into darkness. Like you are fading into darkness. Yet in it, in those streaks of light, I realize I can’t see you anymore.
I still talk to you though, in those rare times alone, in whispers or silent screams that echo in my skull. But I can’t see your face anymore, not your real face, the one that isn’t in photographs. No, all I see now is a blur, a squint-eye mix of features that are pieced together from a strangers set of eyes, a crooked tooth smile from an extra on some forgettable TV sitcom, and the shades of sun-kissed skin that a magazine page boasts in a beach side layout for sunscreen, or light beer.
You used to appear so clearly to me, sometimes in just the glare of light from the stars in the sky, or from the bedside table light that I kept forgetting to switch off.
But now, no matter how tight I shut my eyes I can barely see you. All I see are refractions, splinters, shadows cast across my memories of you.