Anonymous

Shannon Rao || Fall 2020

I could tell you the story of a girl who whispered
as the leaves fell so as not to wake the trees
and told me of her dreams beneath the stars on a blanket
of white as I danced against the night or of a boy who ached
for something more and wept as he drifted across the sea
into nothing. I could tell you of my dreams
too, cloaked in blue or grey or whatever color shined that day to remind me
that I was alive. I could tell you that I am breathing

just like you or that I was when I wrote this
at least, something I can remember when I get lost.
I could tell you stories of houses made of glass
and gold or maybe it was air and mud. Something
from nothing. Nothing real
lives on my block next door to the grocery store where another girl hides
from a world that’s bigger than that store and bigger
than this block and this town and even this earth. I could tell you of a wind
that snakes through us all each year, carrying with it memories
or maybe they’re dreams. They’re just the same
after all. And I could tell you of me,

but you would not know me from the next man
you saw as you walked down the street or the woman
who sat beside you on the bus. You would not know me, only the face
of a broken clock that reads nothing or the surface
of a river that betrays nothing beneath. I could tell you the story
but whose would you know?