I’m one of the faceless ones. Like if I disappeared, no one would quite be able to describe me. My mom, probably, but maybe not anyone at school. Not my teachers, not my classmates—I can see the look on Samantha’s face when she realizes she can’t describe me, she’d(more) be sort of horrified, but she’d think that not being able to remember what I looked like wasn’t about her, it was part of a master scheme. Like I must have been abducted by aliens or something.
Brendon might remember what I looked like if I disappeared. He’s seen my whole body, my whole skinny little barely-looks-like-a-teenager body. He even said it was beautiful. So maybe he’d remember. I’m not entirely faceless to him. Though I’m not sure he’d remember my face. He'd be embarrassed if he couldn’t remember my face, but that might be how it would be.
Honestly, maybe I wouldn't be able to remember his face. I think I would, but if he disappeared? The face might go first, or quickly. I'd remember the backs of his knees. They were the first secret part of him I knew, from those stupid shorts he'd wear in gym class. He told me later that he'd wanted to say to me, "Why are you always looking at the backs of my knees?" but he was afraid that would scare me off, and he really didn't want to scare me off.
I didn't ever try to explain it to him, about the backs of his knees being the first secret part I knew. Even when I could put something like that into words in my head (which I couldn't, hardly ever), I couldn't usually say the words out loud.(less)
Poetry should read early in the morning
so that if feels like you're dreaming it
a personal message to you from the
proverbial mysterious stranger
but not not just any stranger
this one paints fabulous worlds on page
(more) with a pen
later on today you will ask yourself,
"Did I dream that?"
And you go home to look for the book
with the images that made you cry
and you can't find it.