Last November

It's been one of those weeks
When you've just been there.
Right there.
Just constantly on my mind,
Playing over and over
The films of memories
We had created,
On the backs of my eyelids,
So when I close my eyes
I still see them.
When I fall asleep
I dream them.

Why? What is it about this week
That is making me linger,
Like an idiot
Lost inside a maze that
Doesn't have an exit anyway?
The picture we had painted
Inside the sketchbook
I had stolen
From the storage cupboard in art
Where you had taken your
Supplies last year,
To paint that perfect landscape,
Of colours under twilight.

Nothing's special about this week,
I mean, this time last year?
I hadn't even met you!
I had only ever heard of you!
Looked up at the work displayed
In that lazy art studio,
Up in the department.
Your name was just a collection
Of thin ebony brushstrokes
On the corner of a canvas,
Evidence of the artist.

I didn't know last November,
No I didn't have a clue,
That I'd know this name by heart
That I'd ever think of you.