STEFANIE GRAHAM


Stefanie Graham is a poet, writer, and will eventually be a published author
and list her accolades here. She resides in St. Petersburg, Florida (USA)
where it's mostly always sunshine and warm breezes. She is a high school
English teacher, part-time Realtor, mother of two fabulous middle school
kids, owns two crazy, wonderfully beautiful Great Danes, and loves nothing
more than sitting on the beach reading or kayaking with her husband in
Tampa Bay. She enjoys historical fiction, quirky romances, a strong woman
lead in both books and movies, and is passionate about reading and writing
poetry that makes us understood, recognized, and valued.






Fragments of Years

[ i ]
I walked out the doors
expecting to find you
back resting on the stone wall
eyes closed, smoking a cigarette.

there was only empty space.

you had left
even though I wanted you there
waiting.

it was the finalization of the moment
that made me sad
because I knew
it would never be the same.
we had missed each other
by two beats
that would multiply
creating a wide separation
that might never circle back.

[ ii ]
in the sunlit bedroom
making a long-distance call to California
because I missed you.
dust floated on sunbeams
as the dead air
shook
with each ring
of the unanswered telephone.

[ iii ]
June nights
I made love to old letters
walking in between your words
like familiar paths
spending all evening collecting fireflies.

too soon it's time to let them go
and it becomes difficult to distinguish them
from the stars.

[ iv ]
our moments swallow themselves.

you were not outside waiting for me that day.
I was always going to feel the shift,
the break
when we'd let go
of some connection.
that separation has always existed between us.
we watch the lights of trains
coming in from opposite directions
finally meeting,
passing each other
leaving only darkness.

[ v ]
that night
when we stayed up talking
and I was painting
your coffee table
with blues and white
you said, "Hurricane."
I never saw it that way.
it was always a star, a galaxy—
that's what I was painting.

we couldn't see what each other saw.

maybe under my layers
that is what I am.
spectacular destruction.

[ vi ]
I cried on the way home
after seeing you.

perhaps I was saying goodbye
to a part of myself,

the part you always reflected—
the beautiful pieces.

that imaginary girl
who sat next to you
on San Francisco buses
where you'd write words
on foggy windows,
fashioning them into letters
sent across 3,000 miles to my mailbox—
I cried for her.



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