Wait

 Response to Prompt #68: Flashbulb Memories

I identified my flashbulb memory early on. It's one I've thought about many times but never captured in writing. Such quick "flash" of memory, so visceral. It took me a couple of days from start to finish and I'm not even sure in which format/genre it belongs. I shared it in two ways because the process was interesting. It started as a poem- which tends to be my go-to. But I got stuck and left it for a day or two. I just couldn't get past a certain point but knew it wasn't finished. Today, I came back to it and thought maybe it's not a poem. I backed all the lines up, made a few tweaks for grammatical purposes and started thinking about it as a micro memoir. Then I finished it, and decided maybe it was a poem, and just thinking of it as a complete moment in the form of a micro helped me get it done. Not sure! Either way, I'm pretty sure it's done. Interested to hear whether it's better read as a poem or a micro memoir.

Wait

a poem by ljkemp

I remember still, that moment in the doorframe 

naked in more ways than one,  flushed with energy and insecurity.

You stopped me, a tender reminder to be present. Wait. 

My bare feet grounded to the floor, my toes pressed into the cold tile. 

A pivot, my disheveled locks tossed over my shoulder. I tried 

to return your stare but looked past you feeling young and exposed. 

We were both young and exposed, in all the right ways. 

I just want to look at you. And I could feel the warm glow 

of the bathroom light outlining the curves of my body 

while I obliged for just a few seconds. Moments like these 

would come along again and again through the years. 

Thirty years later I still wish to see my body as you do, 

to love it as you do. To stop myself while passing a mirror to say, 

Wait, I just want to look at you.

Wait

a micro memoir by ljkemp

I remember still, that moment in the doorframe naked in more ways than one,  flushed with energy and insecurity.You stopped me, a tender reminder to be present. Wait. My bare feet grounded to the floor, my toes pressed into the cold tile. A pivot, my disheveled locks tossed over my shoulder. I tried to return your stare but looked past you feeling young and exposed. We were both young and exposed, in all the right ways. I just want to look at you. And I could feel the warm glow of the bathroom light outlining the curves of my body while I obliged for just a few seconds. Moments like these would come along again and again through the years. Thirty years later I still wish to see my body as you do, to love it as you do. To stop myself while passing a mirror to say, Wait, I just want to look at you.