Gone Like The Sun

You sit there,

with your black coffee in one hand,

your head in your other.

You sip the bitter stuff,

lounging on the old cracked leather chair,

And as you blow away your hair

I see,

your face is pale, and your cheekbones high,

Yet your eyes speak of insecurity, and a wish to hide,

You smile just for show,

while, secretly, inside, you rust like an old hoe.

But what you really are,

is the boulder in the garden of roses.

Enduring it all, and ignored.

Ignored by those pretty flowers that only live for two months,

whereas you sit there, watching them,

come and go.

To them, you are already gone.

You are gone like the sun, on a cold, rainy, day.

All the while that they sing and dance,

you cringe, you simply wait for your chance,

the chance you know, that you never will have.

You hide it with your smile, but even that grows thin.

And it is visible, that your eyes speak of grief.

But still, when they meet mine, for that split-second.

I see that they can sparkle, like a beautiful tropical reef.

Before you look away, before you lose hope, I see,

that your expression turns gentle.

And you smile genuinely, even if, it is just for that second.

You glance at your phone,

that never makes a sound,

never attracts attention.

You close your eyes,

you sigh an eternal breath,

and I realize,

that though you are scared and alone,

you are tough, and brave,

for, true courage comes in realizing your fears.

Everyone avoids you,

Since they don't want the plague.

Society ostracizes you, but you don't care.

Because, secretly, you know, you would have shut them out anyway.

You stand up, and you resume your natural position,

careless and carefree,

not giving two damns.

And you start to walk out, you coffee, still left on the table,

cold and bitter.

Almost like you, I realize.

And I know, that I have to ask you, one simple question.

How do you do it?

How do you shut them all out, and live all alone?

And still staying completely carefree and careless?

For, what you do, it is an art.

Which is why I come after you, out of the cafe,

into the freezing cold.

And I search through the forest of cars,

yet I see not a glimpse.

And then I know, that I won't see you again.

For, much like the island of ogygia,

we come upon the most intriguing of things only once in life

And thus, you are gone.

Gone like the sun, on a chilly, cloudy night