Giving Voice to the Silent

I remember you
only hazily.
An accent,
maternal demeanor…

that’s it.

Sure, it was long ago,
but you were kind to me.
Why can’t I etch
a stronger impression of you?

You were there for the farewell party
at the French bank
where they served food I couldn’t eat.
You were the only one that asked about that.
You were such a good soul.
What did you look like?

I can remember the tight skirt
of the busty blonde
from my college internship
along with her disinterested face
after my dazed sexist jokes.

I still see the frustrated look on Miranda
in eighth grade
as monkey-faced Marc
made insidious innuendo that made her blush
(me, too).

I can picture a picture
I took of Jill
that was never developed.
The framing,
the uncomfortable smile,
all I can recall.

But you have mostly faded.
Is it because I wasn’t attracted to you?
Am I that shallow?
You seem worth more.
You deserve better from me
if I’m thinking of the right person.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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