I take fun and twist it into a pretzel of complication and seriousness. I spoil the freshness with a single look, then toss my hair over my shoulder as if your puckered face doesn’t faze me. I’m addicted to the lines you draw, the waves on the page, the swirls of yellow, orange, and brown, mixed and brushed, then dabbed into something only you could create. If this isn’t just a fleeting moment, it’ll still be here in the morning—and the morning after. Did you know that? Even as presidents change and old dogs are laid to rest, I’ll lay my head on the kept mound near your headstone.
I’ll replay memories of us—like sitting in the second row of that Broadway show, the way lightning bolts shot through me the day you touched my hand. All the forgotten moments return, lingering until the dew forms on the grass. The chill eventually pushes me to stand, my shawl waiting in your now-empty passenger seat. I never imagined meeting someone like you.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 