Tuesday, November 03, 2009

The Day You Left

A hot, blistering day begins
With a flustered morning
Waiting for you, pining, aching
Your call, a whiff of your voice
And I race to the door

And wait and wait and wait
Until your curly hair enters
My field of vision. Escalator
Ascending. Blue shirt. Shoulders.
You walk the wrong way
And I run, run, run...
Embrace. Relief. Peace.
I cling onto you for life
With time ticking frantically
Every minute bursts
With the pang of your departure
Every time you look at me
Mixed with the happiness you bring
Come waves and waves of sadness

And we walk. Hot, sweaty, hand in hand
The sun can't burn away
The hurt I feel looking at you
My stomach churns with dread
For when you'll say goodbye
My blue-shirt-curly-haired handsome

You stand by the gate with me
Wanting to stay and needing to leave
I curse the forces that pull you from me
I hold back the rain
Choking my eyes, burning
And try to smile. Try to let you go.
I can't. A hug. Another. Another.
Can't erase the heaviness I feel

So, as always, I run from my sadness
I walk away from you, faster
Hoping you don't see me and cry
Sitting in a bus stop
Head in my hands, trying
To numb out the hurt
You see me. You mouth something
I don't understand

I am drawn to you
Like a magnet
I follow the blue shirt in the rickshaw
I follow you like a lost puppy
I run, run, run...
Hoping, irrationally, that you will stop
And come back to me
Instead you accelerate
Around a bend, I lose sight
Of the blue shirt. I'm blind
With hot, lava-like tears
Sweating panting running
Trying to catch a glimpse
A flash, a touch of blue
In the crowded street ahead
Nothing but my ragged breath
Alien unattractive strangers
And thoughts of kisses, laughs, tentative smiles
Of a tiny silver ring on a big finger
Of your quick entry into my world
And your even swifter departure

The tears rain on ceaselessly
I walk and walk and walk and walk
To nowhere; lost without you
No polestars, no blue shirts
For direction

I still cannot fathom the pain
This goodbye brings





Poetry

when language like bubbling streams flow




when words are laid down to fit like lovers' hands




when you feel the essence of the poet from within




when swirling thoughts are caught in the net of rhythm



when images reel as you read




when pen and paper create a symphony




then, it is poetry

National Geographic POD