Paper Locket

All my life I’ve tried to write,
Tried
And succeeded only
In telling tales
Of ones I’ll never know
And scenes I’ll never see.
But ask me
If, once, I can write of the things
That defined not them but me:

Of how tight we held hands as he sang (just for us),
Of what he said the first time I saw him cry,
Of when I knew for sure and the relief that so did you,
Of why I couldn’t stop laughing and
Of the time I knew it was done.

Not sad,
Not unfortunate
That I can’t easily write this,
Just the way I am.
Such is me:

A writer willing to weave all the stories
Born of her mind
But not yet those
Born of her heart.