writing

Somewhere in the middle of October

the days are darker
I walk with my coat up tight
a scarf wrapped round me
I search my pockets for gloves
to keep this chill from piercing

White Noise

I should be sleeping. I turn the radio on. Listen to the songs, any songs to kill the silence that aches all night. To ease my restless mind. My broken heart. I close my eyes, clench my teeth. Focus on the noise. Breathe in and out. Heart races as the song ends, dreading the silence. The final punch…the last beat…to nothing…Still. I crack. Weakened. Next song. A little longer. I hope.

On

From my window I see a tree, lining the street. Standing tall in its rank. I see a glimpse of blue, the sun fading, a wistful sky not quite ready for goodbye.

I hear the cars, going somewhere. The arguments that won’t wait. I hear you reading in your room, not ready for goodnight.

Not ready. I think. Think on my day. The days before. The days yet to come. Unsure of where I stand. I look to the window, watch the tree.

Go on. We all just go on.

 

 

Bird Song

4.30 I wake, the birds are singing outside our window. I lay alone. Listen. Their clear whistle punches through the early morning. The day not bright, not quite ready for their chorous. Yet they sing. Shout aloud. I scream. Tears run down my face. They are alive, so alive. You’re not there. Still not there. Can you hear them? Hear them sing.