Ten years ago I told Liza I loved her.
That was the first time those three words
escaped my mouth and
I remember how she laughed
as she took my trembling hands in hers
and tenderly kissed my knuckles.
That was the last time I saw her.
Liza was everything and anything in between;
I remember different parts of her
as though they were yesterday.
There was her favourite cherry sorbet in spring
and her excitement on the fourth of July.
Our apartment was stacked with
the endless collection of vinyls she hoarded
and the tubes of watermelon flavoured chapstick
she always misplaced.
Liza was a petite frame
with an uncontainable amount of curiousity-
her naivety complemented her carefree spirit
albeit dangerously, that is.
I remember when she would regale me with
her encounters of friendly strangers on the bus
or once where 'that horrid man ran off with
my purse when I distracted by the delicious smell
wafting from the bakery'.
It was precisely ten minutes past eight
that her brother called to deliver the news.
Liza was always determined to
focus straight ahead
when it came to her future
but sadly forgot about the other directions
when she crossed the road.
I suppose it was rather inappropriate of me
to find humour in the manner of her death
but a little voice told me that
she probably would have laughed too.
It has been awhile since
Liza ever crossed my mind
and I have grown out of
the shell I hid under.
But sometimes I lay in bed
at night and wonder
why I still taste watermelon
when I kiss another.
