‘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‘
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,
Once gorging on your comfortable silence
Now treacherous paths clinging to consuming cliffs.
Grief my addiction,
memories deliver the hit I deserve.
Can I sit here beside you on this bench,
staring at the flowers together?
Bees create with every petal,
Or battling to fly with the weight of life?
Weights on legs pull me to the core,
As the world to walks, loves and washes over me.
Please don’t turn to me, placing hands on hands.
sharing pain despite your warm, content, distant heart,
Can I close my eyes beside you here on the grass,
regulating inward breaths, the calm impressing 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 for wind and rain.
Standing agenda item – to detach. I want to fall, soon.
Birds muted and clipped, as we approach any other business.
Their ballet and beauty and melody of murmurings faded to silent clouds.
manslaughter of senses, heart ripped open, breakfast for one.
Can I walk beside you here on the beach,
steps synchronised in my servitude?
Are we 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.
We walk to preserve our stories our memories our plans made,
how the tide ebbs to erase and flows to forget.
Poseidon beckons, never tiring with the temptation of tides.
Nets, barren and torn, catches never caught.
awaiting corals, bleached.
Your pace slowed today, I missed it, spring-cleaning my inner shell.
Your comment took me by surprise ‘Isn’t this beautiful?’
‘Isn’t this beautiful?’ Our pact to share the same pain, showers and tears.
Index finger knuckles clumsily rake, east and west at eyes,
finger tips drag south down my face, reflection caught, never wanted
true north gone, until today.
your honey dew sweetness occupies my mind
my welcome tenant, pity ruined, dressed, music and peace, a first.
Can I stand here in front of you near the dunes,
sun 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 embers.
The moment’s end predicted, but not with a stranger’s touch.
a pensioner, prying me from paralysis.
Holding, tears streaming, ducts fully open, theatrics fully closed.
Her finger tips pressed into my back 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, tips teasing the sand, just as you did.
My elderly Eros clutching our lives in her hands, pulled my closer.
Bending and creasing of photographs, ears saddened, heart warmed.
Friends dry more on insides of jackets with redundant hankies.
Our empaths forever on the side-lines, wings and shadows,
protectors of lost love, flowers re-arranged, vases re-filled.
Today was a bad day.
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 my throat swells 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.
Memories left, no comfort for loss yet the dunes encroach closer into our home.
Indents in beds and chairs and gaps in my days replaced, grain by grain.
I can’t hear your breathing, I wish I could stop too,
yet I would lose you forever, my energy would release with no beacons.
Redundant lighthouses, lights removed I would drift off course.
Get up, pan on, spark the kettle to life, Sunday poached eggs and tea!
Can I listen here beside you on the seawall?
COPYRIGHT PEDROBATPOET 2021