On the drive home from work tonight
I saw a wall of clouds rising over the horizon
like contained smoke, barely lighter than midnight,
and I thought that it swallowed the city.
I was glad at first, hoping to start over again,
you know, somewhere new.
When I walked in my door
I rushed to the computer to write my vision down
because somehow, it seemed important.
And now I'm not sure what to say next,
because I miss what I thought I had,
because I feel phantom hands on my shoulders,
soft stomach pressed to my back,
the delicate abrasion of red gold beard on my cheek,
but mostly because this isn't the poem
I expected to write.
My fingers hesitate over the keys,
unwilling still, to defeat you.
I'm somewhere in the middle right now,
alive but dead,
breathing but unresponsive.
The turquiose ring around my pupils,
the hazel color you liked the most
is also a wall of clouds rising
like contained regret,
barely lighter than resignation,
and the dam of my "never again"
may yet prove to be illusion.
I've written enough poems about strength.
This one, like me, is in between the lines.
I want to destroy the mementos you left me,
your old black hat,
your favorite book with an inscription,
the blue and white sheets we slept on.
Yet I keep them near me, close by but out of sight.
So here I sit
washing my hands of you with tear drops,
saying the first real farewell,
somehow finding a little bit of oxygen in ink.
I'll put you behind the wall of clouds rising
like imagined love, barely lighter than goodbye.
I've lost you for good, it's true,
But I've found poetry once again.
[This message has been edited by Saxoness (09-12-2003 08:13 PM).]