You ask me about childhood, and I don’t know how to confess that I can barely remember who I was
It’s like a hot air balloon inflated and engulfed all my tender years,
Swallowed them alive and minced them to dust motes that now fly past my vision.
Trauma has a sneaky way of stealing things from you; selective amnesia descends over your memories
And all you remember from that time is that Grand Agony and Hurt.
But, this is not a poem about hurt.
This poem is for the little moments, feelings, and memories that sneak back to me in the ungodly hours of lonely nights,
That seep into my mind from Neverland like a revelation,
That crawl and cocoon in my lap till I hold them close and give them love (I’m beginning to think that we all just want to be held and loved for once).
This poem is for the beautiful details hidden in the meshwork of heartbreaks like nightingales in the vines of decade-old black birches.
Before you slipped through my teeth like satin gliding through my fingers,
And before I conjured and killed versions of you in my head,
We used to stand and laugh through the highs of the Ferris wheels (You and I, we were always looking upwards).
Today, I’m writing this poem for the merry-go-rounds and our dances in the rain,
For the lost dreams we wove before reality crept in,
For the roses and the butterflies you always wanted to show me,
For that time on a roller-coaster when I was convinced I was invincible with you laughing as the strands of my wayward hair cradled your face,
For the hands we held under the tables as our friends told stories round the clock,
And for all the stories that I’m yet to remember.