You were last seen beside the birch tree.
Commanding elements, causing the tree to sway towards you, yellow leaves dancing carelessly, throwing music to the wind
Ruling the third floor corridor, constructing symphonies out of laughter
Last seen floating on metaphors, on clouds of admiration stitched into a flying carpet
You wore too much, padded with the heavy words stuck in your chest. Those words you carried around because there was nowhere to put them.
I was the quiet smile at the end of the corridor, the one with too many fictional stories and you as my protagonist
The one who drew a different hue to remember each eye contact
The one twirling her hair while conjuring conversations too afraid to start
The conversation would be about the words around your neck, the secrets tattooed in invisible ink, I’ll begin by saying I’m a pensive you can pour yourself into.
A volunteer therapist who takes 3am baths with lavender just for you
I was the faux power walk at the opposite end of the corridor -watching you walk past me for the last time- with shaky hands and an unsteady heartbeat, same as the last 3 years, throwing out all the conversations I no longer needed as the door closed.
My grandmother had a farm that could have grown a birch tree. I could have learnt to speak in a higher pitch or tried cultivating my own garden.
There’s just me now and the endless list I carry around, I’m at number sixty-something. Meet me at the café near the city park. I’ll be at the end of the corridor with a script this time, a whole book I wrote for you that we’ll never have to follow.
Don’t forget to bring your smile and the gap in your teeth.
I still haven’t.