The night I met him he played me guitar
I watched his fingers pluck the weathered strings I saw the
world in his fingertips
His room was bare, just the guitar and his casket
He plays the part well but
he's just a boy who was kind enough to look at me
like I was something more than broken
He smokes a pack a day, he says it helps him think
or maybe to forget
He didn't taste like cigarettes It was a breath of fresh air as
I run down the hill
and leave my thoughts behind
Now he passes and stares
I tell him I am going to church
He says don't pray for him
I want to feel the way he
feels the world through his fingertips
The way he glances and smirks
a cat finding it's next target He sinks onto his haunches
I keep trying to say something
but I think I lost of my use of english
or maybe he did, long ago
the day he ran to the fields and sank into the wild flowers
Now, we speak in foreign tongues
and we are far, away from home
And I remember it all now,
even when I told him I forgot
even when I saw him this summer
and I said we were fine
We both knew we weren't
I just wanted so desperately
to be okay again
To speak is to pray for him
To be silent is to lose
Elsa Baxter is from Amherst, Massachusetts, and is in U0 with an intended major in chemistry. Typically a visual artist, this marks her foray into the world of poetry. In her free time, you can find her reading, hanging out with friends, sleeping, or a combination of all three.
Collage by Elsa Baxter.