Emily, You're Loved

The first time I saw Emily Rose,
she was a paperback book
with a faceless jacket.
I was thirteen and wanted
Sam who swam in the ocean
every single summer.
Emily's sunrise was as marked
as dusty 78 RPM Navy albums.
At breakfast, before school,
I'd riffle through the pages
never content with one or two.
Yes,
Mum was there and asking
Would the weather hold up?
Hurry with those books.
I wished that
Emily could sing then.
But with my thick glasses,
I could only buy tickets to the
theater with her licorice on
my breath.

First Place in Idril's Abstract Poetry Contest