‘A poem about loss and a week in life of…as someone copes with what to do, still yearning for every part of their partner‘
Monday
Can I listen here beside you on the seawall,
share the head massage on each fallen wave?
Casting off secured secrets into white horses and froth,
Destinations, once shared.
I gorged on your comfortable silences.
Now treacherous paths clinging to consuming cliffs.
Grief, my addiction.
Memories deliver the hit I crave.
Tuesday
Can I sit here beside you on this bench,
staring at the flowers together?
Bees create with every petal,
then fight to fly with the weight of life.
The pollen on my legs pulls me to the core,
The world walks, loves and washes over me.
Please don’t turn to me, placing hands on hands,
sharing pain despite your warm, content, now distant heart.
Wednesday
Can I close my eyes beside you here on the grass,
regulating inward breaths, as my energy impresses the fauna?
Holding in until eyes are filled with stars,
Gentle exhale through tightened lips, craving connection.
The wind summons the leaves in their autumnal committee,
I could be in that community, minuting
the wind and rain.
Standing agenda – detachment.
Please let me fall, soon.
Birds muted and clipped, as we approach any
other business.
Their ballet, beauty and melody of murmurings faded to silent clouds.
A manslaughter of senses, heart ripped open with a breakfast for one.
Thursday
Can I walk beside you here on the beach,
steps synchronised in my servitude?
We are one, I daren’t glance back at faded footprints.
Sand filling each imprint, with every heel lift.
Silica immobilised with merciless military precision, erasing your presence
and my options.
We walked to preserve our stories, our memories, our plans not met.
How the tide ebbs to erase, and flows to forget.
Poseidon beckons, never tiring with the temptation of his flow.
Nets, barren and torn, on the awaiting bleached corals,
a catch never to be caught.
Friday
My pace slowed today, I missed our venue whilst spring-cleaning my inner
shell.
Your comment took me by surprise,
‘Isn’t this beautiful?’ Our pact to share the same pain, showers and tears.
My fingertips raw as I desperately rake at the east and west,
Then I drag them south down my face, sand trapped under fingernails,
As trapped as my reflection, never wanted in silo, my true north gone.
Your honey dew sweetness occupies my mind,
my welcome tenant, pity ruined, my confidence dressed, music played.
Saturday
Can I stand here in front of you near the dunes,
rays warming my neck to light up your face?
The sun unveiling new colours in your hair,
I felt you smile.
The wind sweeping hair across your eyes and nose,
you slowly turned, fine strands drifting into your comforting mouth.
Words and tones that fuelled my furnace, launching timeless days,
never leaving my soul with concerns over the re-igniting embers.
The moment’s end predicted, but not with a stranger’s touch.
a pensioner, prying me from my paralysis.
Holding on, tears streaming with Hoover Dam theatrics, fully open.
Her finger tips pressed gently into my shoulders releasing my pain on to
that beach,
accompanied tears, each filled with a memory, lost into the sand.
Embrace launched as pictures of you fell from shaking fingers.
Care free dancing, teasing the sand, just as you did.
My elderly angel clutching our lives in her hands, pulled me closer.
Brushing sand off creased photographs, her eyes saddened, her heart warmed.
With redundant hanky, she dried more dropped memories, keeping them safe on
the inside of her jacket.
My empaths forever on the side-lines, wings and shadows.
My protectors of a love lost, vases re-filled, flowers re-arranged.
Today, was a bad day.
Sunday
Can I lie here next to you in bed for ten more minutes,
your right foot, touching my left?
This will be the last I swear, as throat swells and breathing hurts.
My little finger barely touching the top of your thigh, but aware,
feeling your warmth, your direction, your hope, your presence.
With tainted heart, the ceiling my focus, I pick at sutures, wounds teased
open.
With memories fading, no comfort for loss, the dunes encroach across the
threshold.
Indents in beds and chairs, still visible. Gaps in my days replaced, grain
by grain.
I can’t hear you breathing, I wish I could stop too,
yet I would lose you forever, my energy would release you with no beacons.
A vacated lighthouse with fractured mirrors, I drift off course.
Tomorrow, can we meet again, on the seawall?
COPYRIGHT PEDROBATPOET 2021
Pedro Batpoet 