snippets of poor works in progress
I am still here,
two days later,
where you left me.
I wanted to call you.
I wanted to write.
I wanted to say that everything was all right.
But it's not.
And who should I talk to-
`cause you wouldn't care.
There's no one to turn to-
`cause you are not there.
The city, these faces,
mean so little to me.
Everything's changed;
it's not the way it should be.
I walk thru the park,
like I'm holding your hand.
It's all so strange
in this colourless land.
I can't breathe.
Who could I run to
when you are not here?
Who would I come to
when nothing is clear?
All of this means nothing to me;
something changed how I thought it would always be.
I am still here,
two days later,
where you left me.
***
Lydia, he said, you put it all in boxes…
the tarnished, the gleaming, the solid, the unseeming.
Never once did you stop to think, there might be more to it,
something to outrule it, before you shoved it all away.
***
Never before, and only now and then.
I've paid prices I'll never pay again.
The words, the touches, the tears,
searching for numbers to confirm all my fears.
I knew, but I never knew.
Edited: July 19th, 2003