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
I wake, angry
the skies outside calm.
The air still. The day easy.
I long for the rain to fall.
I pull my sleeves down, cover my hands. Play with the wool that has unraveled. The wool that you wore. Breath in. A hint of you. Though it has been through the wash again and again. Still it has a part of you. I wrap myself in this jumper. Too big. I echo within. Watch the rain stream down the window. Watch the drops fall from the sill.
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.
The rain falls and I think of that
night, we cycled home. Tipsy from the
wine we drank, drenched to our skin.
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.
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.
I think of you in the sunlight. Spring breaks. Tears fall. I weep as another year passes. Another day goes by. The day mild, the air warm. My heart still cold, without you.
I drop a pencil, hear it crack. Pick it up. Listen to the core. Graphite snapped. Invisible. Inside. I press on it, write a sentence. Sketch a drawing, shade the grey. Use it. Broken. I know it’s done. Inside it’s shattered. A rattle, a clatter. Pieces fallen. Outside it’s fine.
I long to paint the morning sky, cushion clouds in clusters of pink and blue. I think of what I’d use, the shapes I could make, the tones I could create. Just to keep this close to me. To feel this again.