People ask me, "what does it mean to be certain?"
Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night trying to find the perfect words to every poem that I'd ever written. Other times, I'd subconsciously play these little flashbacks of you in my mind, and the way your scent lingered on my palm hours after you shut the car door. It was subtle, but it had remained embedded at the back of my head regardless.
I was there in early December when the sky bled into dark grey and white gradients as the city lights illuminated the glimmer in your eyes. At first, I recognized your face. Then, I immediately memorized your posture and how you had little ringlet curls in your hair. I was never used to wearing my heart on my sleeve, but I buried my doubts underneath the pavement that day when my fingers curled around yours for the first time, and for once, your hand felt warm as you placed it in mine.
I've been told that our pasts greatly define who we are in the present. But now, I find myself wondering how you softly still allow yourself to smile even after the days have made you pale. I wouldn't need to be under a mistletoe to kiss your demons good night.
Then, what does it mean to be certain?
Whenever morning breaks and you'd sigh the question beneath the collapse of your eyelids, "are you still staying?"
I'd answer, "why would I ever leave?"
December 24, 2021
Painting by Lisa Lisa @Allartonline (Etsy)
Merry Christmas!
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