His says his name is Henry.
We’ve known each other since elementary.
But one day we’re separated to other city,
And now he’s helping me revive my memory.
He may say his name is Henry,
To whom I vowed to grow old ‘til ninety.
He may be present in my memory,
But my heart can see the big picture clearly.
He wear the same clothes,
I see the same face.
I smell the same scent,
But there’s something in his gaze.
He says I love you like vinyl playing,
Perfect, sweet and soothing.
Yet my heart can’t help but feel nothing.
It sounds like a broken record that keeps repeating.
He grows the same periwinkle I love,
With the same color I have in mind.
But still can’t fit like a glove.
There’s still something I want to find.
The hunches gnawed at me from inside out.
Behind this huge door is something to talk about.
Only one twist of this golden knob,
And the door creaks open yet nothing to have.
Everything was arranged in perfection.
His table, his chair, his plaque of appreciation.
Too useless to get my attention.
Until I see his shoebox collection.
Henry or whatever he calls himself,
Hides the very thing I endlessly seeks.
My fingertips nearly reaches one of the shelf,
But the door suddenly creaks.
