#18
How many days has it been
Since you last wrote a poem?
Only a day?
Such a long day it was.
You were busy
displacing water with your body
to measure the weight of silence
across time.
It was difficult. With each wave
the body moves
and gravity disperses,
water spills and you had to do it again,
like a sad question
repeating itself.
For example:
If you miss someone
long enough
hard enough,
would they know?
Could they feel it
sitting heavy on their heart,
refusing what is told
it must accept
except you
don't matter.
Could they know?
But then, why would you need them to know?
They did not know when autumn came to these parts and leaves burned bright for days without you seeing.
They did not know how much
you wanted to break the face of serenity walking around that lake
stepping on grass you love,
stepping on paths you want
to lay down on,
stepping on stones you want
in your pockets.
You wanted to break the smiles that must have happened.
The hands that must have pretended to need warmth.
Tear the hair that must have turned gold in the sunset.
Your sunset.
Did they know?
4.22.17
