When I Swing With You

A poem for those still searching.

This is my curse:
I sit on a swing alone
with wind-dried cheeks
the swing beside me alone as well
and the breeze pushes her
but I: still.
I wonder who could be sitting there
my playground crush is
the pretty girl with white hair
and anonymous eyes
with brows like the sphinx
and lips encased in glass—

We have been together since I was a boy
she followed me from the moment I discovered her
but has changed over the years
without notice without permission
I find momentary fulfillment in thinking about her sometimes
because it hurts in a way that reminds me
of the dark hue of my hair
the expanding glow in my eyes
the distracted grain of my brow
the thoughtful texture of my lips—
Reminds me that I am real
that someday, she: still, like me.

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