Just went poking around in my old files and found this. Written about fourteen years ago. Probably the last poem I wrote. Not as bad as I remember, though the line breaks are all screwy. It's untitled - never good with titles - but we'll go with:
Sometimes
I can still see him.
Even now, six years on.
It's harder than at first,
when I could conjure him
on command.
It's gotten so I have to
mentally squint,
pushing my palms
into my eyes to block out
any light. It's best to have silence,
though the steady ticking
of a clock methodically working
through time can help. I push hard enough,
often until it hurts, and I can see him,
still 17, still looking for all the world
like some lost woodland creature,
soft brown hair and eyes
that could pull declarations of adoration
from a mute.
Sometimes, on a good day, I can see us.
We stand in the train station,
uncomfortably close, eyes darting
and searching for something, anything
but each other. I reach out for him,
something I could never do
in reality, just his elbow,
just for attention, to ask
what he wants to do,
where he wants to go. And he pulls away.
Even here, in my mind,
he rejects me. Sometimes it ends there.
Sometimes he walks off,
talking under his breath
as I try to catch up with him.
And sometimes he turns and shouts
at me, what the f**k do I think I'm doing,
that I've ruined everything,
that he's sorry but he just doesn't feel like that.
I know all this marks me out as pretty sick,
that I should probably get help.
But it gets worse.
Sometimes I see them.
She changes each time,
but she's always prettier -
taller - thinner - smarter.
They smile contentedly
in a post coital embrace,
the room warm
from an afternoon spent f-cking,
a sickly perfume of sex, cigarettes and wine
in the air. She gets up for a piss,
pulling on his dressing gown
to make her way across the landing,
(though they are alone)
looking heartbreaking in it,
as some girls just can
in their boyfriends clothes, as I never could.
He watches her
in the candlelight as she pulls her hair out
from under the gown, flicking it
so it runs in a wave down her back,
(the motion slows slightly here).
She smiles at him, an eyelash
on her cheek, though he doesn't notice,
his eyes meeting hers,
allowing himself to be read.
I could only ever get haikus
from him, frustrating and aloof. To her,
he reads like her favourite childhood book,
easy and familiar and comforting.
When she leaves the room I take my chance,
trying to make the phone ring,
that he'll answer and smile
at my voice,
or even just telepathically,
to make him think
about me, to wonder where I am now.
And sometimes,
rarely though still worrying,
I wake myself repeating his name
like a mantra.
_________________
Of course, it's probably quite a bit more complicated than that.
You know sometimes, between the dames and the horses, I don't even know why I put my hat on.
19 Feb 2016, 3:20 pm
