A Long Distance Friendship

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I seemingly wrote this poem almost on a whim, but then again, all I ever do is just put words on paper and they become a piece of work. So this is a poem about long-distance friendships, or possibly more. I don't like thinking about the "it's a small world" phenomenon, but maybe I'm just skeptical. Anyway, I dedicate this to elizabethrose, the Rose. I'm just a little awry of how well the last two words will be received; I don't know how well they connect. I hope you enjoy reading this!

Submitted: February 27, 2014

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Submitted: February 27, 2014

A A A

A A A


The dust clothes the room like a blanket,
 As I return back for a visit,
 The whole house aching with memories
 The moment I pass through the door,
 And no one is home,
 Nor has been for some years now.

A drawer I open in my old room
 Has all the letters
 Which were never sent
 To Illyana,
 And never mailed
 To Noah,
 And I haste to wonder
 How they would receive them now.

I forgot about the time
 I told Rose I wrote a song for her,
 That I played on my guitar,
 And by now I have
 Forgotten all the chords,
 But the lyrics are still in the drawer,
 And all the strings on the guitar
 Are out of tune.

There is a memory in the corner,
 In which I was supposed to tell someone
 That they are not worthless,
 But I forgot exactly who,
 And there is an unfinished quilt
 I remember Rose sent me,
 Saying she wanted me to try to sew it back together,
 And bring it to her one day,
 But the tears at the seams
 Were something too distant
 For any reasonable needle
 To fix back together.

The old burnt flag I saved in the closet
 Deserved to be completely gone from the place,
 Because it was Joshua’s, not mine,
 And I still cannot perceive why he left me it,
 Since that was a time when
 We hadn’t talked in years,
 But I had heard he had found
 A rope that he liked very much,
 More than anything else.

The floorboards are worn and creaking now,
 And aside my old bed
 Is an unkempt chest
 With all my books inside,
 And there was a note with this address,
Untouched, white as snow,
And it said it could not speak to me anymore,
Because even though the distance should not
Consider losing hope,
It is truly a long way to search
For something that is imaginably trusting
And unwavering in protection,
Though its ambient care
Is not wholly present.
Taking a pen away from the words,
I know the letter has given up
And I need not glimpse at the signature,
Because it is beautifully written,
Yet it is all about me.

The clock on the wall mocks me,
 For it does not chime any movement,
 And it knows there is no time
 For me to waste myself away,
 Worrying about people I once cared so dear,
 Those of whom
 I never met formally.

And the house is all but a relic now
That was almost all burned down years ago,
Leaving behind those few rooms, and my own
With predestined tears in my heart,
Because the letter told me lastly
Not to cry,
And that when the time comes,
It told me to remember that I
Was still its best friend,
And Red Oak really is a nice place,
But it is very hot in the summers,
And the trees look especially dry, not very pretty.
But when the time comes,
Hopefully the letter and I will both know
How patient love should be,
And that you should not let it die
For whatever vain reason,
And not give something so beautiful
A label to justify against,
And that I need to be the man I ought to,
The man that doesn’t let go hope,
But provides everything he needs to
And all the more,
To one day finally meet
In the most blessed and
Miraculous of circumstances,
And to never have to write
Any more letters
That make the distance hurt that much more,
Because hopefully,
This distance won’t even be here anymore.

Sincerely,
 Rose.

 

 

 


© Copyright 2019 Liam Strong. All rights reserved.

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