Sunlight and Shadow
I remember looking up at her window
as she looked down. And the electricity I’d feel when our eyes met like that.
I remember watching her float down the stairs
in her white sundress, laughing as we walked
out into the warmth of the summer sun.
And the way she tilted her head
when she laughed at my jokes.
(Even though they were hardly funny.)
Now, when I walk by, the window is cold
and vacant. The shade is always drawn.
Now that she’s gone, the sun has lost it’s warmth.
Now her house just reminds me of her smile.
And how it’s gone from the world.
How the echoes of her laughter are just in memory.
Now I can’t tell her all the things
I never had the courage to say.
And I won’t get to see her smile.
But I’m still here, walking by her house.
Expecting to see her standing at the window,
her sundress mixed in sunlight and shadow.
And though I know I won’t see her
I still feel that little rush of electricity
as I look up to that window
which proves that she’s still alive
in my memory, and in my heart.