I still have your picture
But it's not framed beside my bed,
Or on the wall,
It's not lining my desk,
Or hiding in the drawers beneath my socks,
It's in my closet, where things I don't want to need, but always seem to need to want, live,
My closet, where things live to die away, from memory, from meaning, from me,

And There lies your picture,
Sitting on top of a broken kite I got from the grandparents I don't even talk to,
Beneath the stack of play pretend poetry I wrote with you in mind,
I use those chains of prepositional phrases and personifications to keep your picture at bay,
I use those conundrums and create a cacophonous barrier of words to drown out your white noise Polaroid,
And I still hear it!
I confined your pigments using complex sentences, compounded and regulated,
I wrote of pain, and sorrow, and joy, and love, and life, death, and I covered your rancid buzz of crackling, whispered promises,
But still hear it...

I still hear your honey glazed words,
I still feel you're cherry blossom breathe ignite my cheek,
I still smell your paper crisp laundry,
And I still can't keep your picture away from my hands,
I unlock my hyperboles and push aside my metaphors to see your face again,
I sit in my closet where I keep the things I don't want to need, but always seem to need to want,
And I decide to lay myself beside my broken, red fire truck,
My poems a blanket to keep me safe,
Because my poetry was never to keep things locked away,
but keep everything else, out.