Out of arm's reachI thought I'd find you there Somewhere between the not-sheepish-enough smile And the eyes creased with laughter too easy to forget.Out of arm's reach
I thought I'd find you there Hands warm with anticipation. I arrived but you were nowhere.
That's ok, I should have remembered. You never were where I wanted you to be.
Power-walking in High HeelsYou crept up on me today. Ambushing me at work (surprise!) Just when my defences were downPower-walking in High Heels
All it took was the flick of a page Catching a glimpse Of your low slung walls Your stretching gables Your sights Your sounds Skylines, views, Familiar territory - Leaping off the page, Conjuring up memories
Of life not all that long ago.
In this city people Stand, eat, talk Work, sleep standing up
They know nothing of Filling in time, gesticulating to All but wide open spaces Only punctuated by the dreams a
Stencil of our former selvesI’ve turned 40 degrees and it’s not in my ears But in my head I hear you (that would be the headphones) Blocking me outStencil of our former selves
Why does the music always sound better with you? Unanswered prayers, I guess. (“The other Capote book” she said) Incomplete like we always will be I trail off and
Suddenly sitting, momentarily blinded Soaring between buzzing clouds Going through the motions I still haven’t committed to memory
It’s different now, of course I don’t need to tell you Clichés come true when we’re together (the silences always say more)
Goodbye is only 7 lettersI count the steps of my final lap Going through the motions of the life IGoodbye is only 7 letters
Am Leaving.
Like an involuntary mantra it consumes me Resounds through my mind While I continue this belated dress-rehearsal Colours my disappearing hours with greys,
blues and dismal hues
Like a bad 80s song I won’t find what I’m looking for (Even there), Compelled to search I am defined by desires unattainable Why don’t you come to me instead?
As someone else’s footsteps echo mine Down a hall I once knew Like the back of my ever-aging hand
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"The dead weep with joy when their books are reprinted." - Alexander Sokurnov
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