Am I a past?
a complicated reflection of a love poem
Even as time passes like silk against raw skin,
it’s hard not to remember the way you held me
…underwater...when we were meant to swim.
What paragraphs grew between us
like trees that forgot me among rings.
Am I a past participle?
Or the silent, kinetic touch of braille?
Regret reaches out like an oil spill,
coating everything in rose-colored pearl.
Only more time will tell,
whispered among the hallow dreams
from the unanswered clamor
distance now quiets between us.
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.
Follow along for stories about a little bit of everything (i.e. nostalgia and other affairs of the heart).
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Center Stage with Gina C.
*** I'm keen to republish the interviews I did for my series with Vocal creators. It's been a few years and I thought it might be nice to revisit these wonderful conversations. I'll be releasing them one at a time for a few weeks/months.
By Heather Hubler5 days ago in Interview
Comments (3)
Oil spill/ rose coloured pearl There is something so satisfying about your choice of rhyme here 🥹 Endless stunning lines, this is really well done ❤️
wow, I loved these lines: it’s hard not to remember the way you held me …underwater...when we were meant to swim. What paragraphs grew between us like trees that forgot me among rings.
Your metaphors and imagery so potently evokes that terrible divide that grows in relationships that have gone irreversibly awry! Wonderful poetry like always, RC!