Sarah Ramsey
“Remember me, I remember you.”
A Norseman wrote this centuries ago,
For a spouse or a friend—who’s to say?
I think it was just for someone they loved.
I remember you in twilight
sweeping across Thompson Woods
into the Vermillion Room.
The outline of your strong jaw
etched away from the walls
that were painted in blue light.
The sun beams hit the underscores
of the sadness in your eyes
like golden droplets in a puddle of rain.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, and it was okay—
we were okay, I thought.
“Remember me,” I think is what
you meant to say—
you chased me to the locked door
and we knew it was now or never.
Thank you for choosing now.
Even still, I remember you,
as Mother Libra beams her starlight
thread between our souls
and I deconstruct all my
pre-conceived notions of love.
We’re an odd pair, you and I.
I think we missed each other
those three winters ago,
but maybe that was fate
stepping in before I did
something incredibly foolish.
I could have lost you completely
if I had not been broken first,
pulled apart, stripped and beaten,
forced to put myself back together,
I’m missing some parts of me in Neely,
You’re helping me find new parts that fit.
Love manifests in different ways for us:
My friend, my lover, my brother,
Your friend, your lover, your sister,
We express it as the moment sees fit.
You told me I deserve the world
And you weren’t the one to give it to me.
Silly man, I don’t want the world—
I just want your heart,
and for you to remember me,
like I remember you.