For Me?

I hold on to the two poems you gave me. The ramshackle paper that channeled them stays folded, jaundiced and carefully tucked between the pleats of my wallet. They are creased by often handling, by obvious repetitive rereading. Yes, I open them from time to time in the hope of conjuring a rare smile from my face. I will go over them as I have done so many times before, mainly to convince myself that you scribbled them with difficulty under dim lamplight, on your gloomy study table that had no purpose but for you to fall asleep on, you said. Somehow I wish my picture still stands on it.

As the last words of your lyrics tumble onto my mouth, I will close the paper again, fold it in quarters and hide it once more. Each time I do so I can’t help but to wonder why you never bother regarding uniformity. Your words are formless, even as the ones I remember coming out of your lips. Your sense of rhythm falters when it should instead flatter. You have been careless with your hands, but not as much with your sentiments. Up to now I fight so hard trying to understand what you wanted to say to me through those extravagant words. I long to find meaning behind your obscurity.