03. Making History

You left an imprint of faded gray
softer than velvet shadows at dusk.
And how long has it been, anyway,
since I last
     held your face in my hands?
     heard the cadence of your voice?
     thought of you at all?

The lights go out at night,
and in the darkness, I still remember
the corners of ceilings where the
stick figure faces leered up out of the texture.
(The same gravelly shit I scraped my knuckles on
     so badly they scarred.)
Do you know it's for you?

Our best talks always happened under starlight
where the world never felt quite so real.
Dreamscapes are nice worlds to dream up.
Behind brick staircases we hid away
more to keep our hopes from escaping
     than anything else.
You dreamed of making history.
I was joking when I told you I believed you would.

The days have flown, and time erased
     the places we'd go
     the people we'd know
     the histories we could have made together.
And your dusky imprint began to fade.

But the ceiling people still whisper sometimes,
and the dreams of those-days-when
still glimmer.

And I don't believe you'll make history one day.
I believe you've made it all along.