The walls of her room are alive and pulsing with reminders
the obsessive pen renderings
a reminder of a long gone relative
and I wonder what substance accompanied the cracks of his mind
on his journey through the countless carefully connected lines and the colors that leap about them
in the far corner
a marker board reminder of Buddha
an erasable placement of permanent wisdom
mirrored doors present written reminders of who she is
and I realize
who we are is often the easiest thing to forget
regardless of how sharp we think our memories to be
volumes stacked by her bed
collect up every quote to ever touch her
conjoining in her own open ended bible
they provide her with a roadmap to a god more
internal than eternal
She reads me her short story
it regards the storm swept wreckage that clutters her existence
she illuminates it in a way that's so bright and beautiful
I want to gather it all up and carry it away with her
and I see us together in that mirrored door
crowded with all its revelation
and I feel as if my reflection has never been clearer
it finally shows me that part of myself
that allows me to feel this way about somebody
without fear or pretense
without the weight of expectation
without the adornment of some foolish mask
we're not trying to complete each other
but we help make each other complete without trying at all
and the walls
so totally covered yet so naked
reverberate and sing to me
and I already know I've never known such a complete person as her so completely
and all our time and experience
all we've learned, accomplished and become
it's encircled us, pulling us together into this moment
where we can be truly be perfect for one another
