There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
I don’t remember you as much
as I tell myself I do, or, more importantly,
as much as you’d like to believe.
There are fragments I grasp,
not for dear life, but just enough
to hang there gently.
I won’t let you cease to exist, for that would be impolite–
just as I’ve changed and grown,
you have too. Who knows
if you’d recognize my façade?
After all, you can’t look for me
how I can for you.
Always knowing where you are
might be the one thing
that keeps me away.
At times I wonder what it’s like to be
grounded, fully immersed in the geographical
coordinates where you remain.
To those who inhabit you now,
I hope they are sufficient, and if they leave
one day, may they remember you not for
what you were, but for what you’ve become.
About the Author:
Dave Vogtman is a 2015 graduate of Rowan University, where he studied Radio/TV/Film and Creative Writing. His work has been published in Avant, as well as receiving honors in the Denise Gess Literary Awards for his poetry, and the RTF Media Fest in the category of Best Screenplay. He works and resides in New Jersey, spending his free time writing & producing music and crafting screenplays.