Your story is in little pieces,
Left wherever you use to be.
Like in the drawings on the wall,
And in your favorite library.
It is in the crumbled pieces of notebook paper,
Of homework that never was turned in.
And the never-clean tennis shoes caked with mud.
It is everywhere and anywhere that reminds me of you.
Because most people know you as the girl who never was always there,
But I know you as the girl who dances with flowers in her hair.
Some people know you as “she,”
And to them that’s all you’ll ever be.
But you are the pressed flowers in all the poetry books,
The paint covered jeans you always wore,
And the chalk covered hand that would hold mine.
You where all those things and more.
You where the windchimes and rockers on the porch,
And the budding roses in the garden.
You where in all your favorite books,
With brightly colored sticky notes throughout.
And now that you are gone,
They are all I have to remember you by.
The jeans with paint grow dusty,
Just like your favorite books.
It seems like you should be comming through the door,
And asking me why I am sad.
I can’t seem to part with your chalk,
Worn from use, and your hands.
You would spend hours just
Putting your dreams down with pastel colors on the driveway.
You left me a note, still sealed on my beside table.
And I have a feeling you left dried daisy chains all over the house,
Because that is something you would do.
And if I look carefully enough,
I’m sure I will find more then one sticky note,
Saying in your spidery handwriting,
” I tried, I loved, but I lost. And all that I can do now is move on.”
And I know you wouldn’t want me to cry,
When I see all the pictures of you and me.
But you where here just yesterday it seems,
Laughing into the wind.
And though you left me all the things,
That hold little parts of you.
You aren’t here, and that is who I want.