I thought I’d write you a letter,
All the words that paint you,
Shine on you,
Make you who you are,
And what you mean to me,
What you are to me,
Who, where, when you’ve been to me.
But it’s the words that wear you,
That get their meaning from you,
Words paint pictures and you paint words.
You paint stories.
Lovely, long, bright-light stories,
Blurry like when you remember,
Summer holidays through sandy, salty,
Too blue, too green eyes.
Through fish-and-chips-with-salt-and-vinegar flavoured lips.
Never rain, but rain has passed.
You’re the memory of me,
At my happiest moments.
Little me, medium me, big me.
You were there.
You’ve always been there.
Guiding me, coaching me, making me better.
More determined, more active, more expectant of people.
Of things to come.
Less tense, less worried, less scared of shoulda-woulda-coulda beens
So instead I’m writing you a poem.
Of words that make pictures,
Pictures of you.
Pictures of orange, yellow, blue,
Of warm and hot,
Of just baked bread brimming with butter,
Of caramel scented, cup-of-tea-with-one-sugar tasted,
Silky sweet postcards,
Of us together.
When our faces were nearly new,
White like porcelain, bronze like gingerbread.
When your hair was fuzzy,
When it was flicked with Vanilla moose.
When Samson met Delilah,
And back again.
Back to the flick.
And so it goes,
More to come,
Don’t be scared.
I’ll be there,
So will you,
Time is time.