Am I real
She asks
Of course little Cricket
I say
Reaching for her hand
It is cool and soft
Like buttercups
In the early morning dew
How do you know
Your hair
Your face
Your dress
Your shoes
They all make you Alice
But I do not understand who made me
She whispers
Perhaps you made yourself
You survived the story at least
Much more than I could do
And I am old and weathered
She bites her bottom lip
It turns pink
Perhaps reality isn't for us
She muses
Our heads are full of words
We can barely sit still
To hear the world
And all its magic
One day
I think
Reality will come crushing down
Make its mark and separate us
I do not want that day to come
I am happy with her hand in mine
All that she is
All that I am
Intertwined
And breathing.
Beautiful poem, Jae. But I am going to remove the link to this one, as unfortunately it doesn't fit the prompt, which was to actually write a piece of realism. You are welcome to submit it at a Sunday 'Writers' Pantry' instead.
ReplyDeleteA hand cool and soft as buttercups in early morning is so lovely! Your closing lines are spectacular. Keep holding her hand, Jae. Your reality is just fine and Alice means so much - to you and to all of us.
ReplyDelete