And What Would We Trade

Imagine that you know me. Imagine that I’ve told you that I can never pick my favorite color—sometimes it’s the deep green of pine trees of the forest which surrounded the house I grew up in and sometimes it’s the lightest gold like the flecks in someone’s eyes that only show up when the sun is just right. Imagine that I have a too loud laugh and that I find some things so funny that I sometimes lie down on the ground just to laugh. Imagine that I think that there are seven ways to fall in love but I don’t believe in any of them and that I stopped looking people in the eyes because I was afraid of turning into someone who cares. Imagine that when I placed my hands onto the stones in the garden I thought that I could feel the sun but I was a child and I didn’t know that the stones held their own warmth. Imagine that I lost a shoe in the river once when I was jumping and it is still there somewhere, maybe washed out to sea or eaten by fish or caught against the sharp edge of a rock and just waiting for any foot to come along and fit inside and I am the kind of person who wondered more about Cinderella’s shoe, lost, forgotten, then I did about her. Imagine that I used to like to sing but I’ve forgotten every tune to every song and maybe if you sing them just right then I’ll be reborn back into memory. Imagine that I don’t believe in God but I believe in souls. Imagine that I’m foolish and scared most of the time but I hate to say things first. Imagine that once I stood in a  forest surrounded by trees and I thought I saw a ghost and all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around him and see if he would stay, if staying, just staying in one place is what can save. Imagine that I am someone you know and that you know me well enough to ask me where I’m going. Imagine that I will answer you because I can’t not answer you, specifically you, and that I will say that I don’t know and I will mean it and I will ask you for your thoughts and I really will listen and I will ask you something in return. Imagine that when I was young I found a staircase and it didn’t lead anywhere and maybe that’s the moment I wanted most to believe. Imagine that sometimes I wake up and think that I can’t remember what faces look like—of anyone, of everyone. Imagine that I’m in love with you and that I can’t help thinking that there are ways to forget everything and that there are ways even to forget you. Imagine that you turn around and I am gone.

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