no, it was not when
you did murmur in my ear
that comfort i longed to hear,
and it was not when
you glanced gently at a stray tear.
yes, it was not when
you put your arms around me
and i put my arms around you,
like a sloth at your tree-ish waist.
i swear, it was not when
you sat with your face to the window
in the bus, and in my sickness i saw
your profile was perfect,
the line of your nose upwards,
the lashes of your eyes downwards.
i promise, it was not when
you stood and you smiled
all those times you ever smiled,
so many i haven't the fingers
nor the chance to count them.
lord, it was not when
you fell asleep in the canteen
or when you never seemed to eat,
and so familiar under your eyes
was this thin purpling sheen
as if you didn't really sleep,
and i wondered idly what it was
that kept you from your dreams.
it was not when
you were here, and
it was not when you weren't.
it was when i realised you
might not be here again,
that i finally learnt.
but...
inexplicably, i have become
a wanderer of moments:
i have mapped every second
that i spent with you
along the lines of letters,
black against a white screen,
or across the swirls of my brain
with a fragile and trembling finger
that bleeds and bleeds
and yet carries on endlessly.
i have become patchwork:
i've taught myself to stitch
by pricking my skin
until i was scarred and dented
like paper clutched in a fist,
i am made of pattern upon pattern
of you and me and you and me,
and me being myself
i have stayed awake so very late
simply so that i may figure out
how to piece us all together.
i have become the observer
that notes down every day to myself,
removed from the broken crowd
that is pushing forever forward
and ripping at themselves to be better,
i am instead a part of those
who feel such a stillness inside
that they never could have dreamt of,
one of the people who ponder
late into the night about
how far they have walked when
they couldn't even imagine standing.
i have become me,
with all the heat and the fire
and the split-ends and dark circles,
with all the choked-throat
and too fast and too slow
and the always too cold.
i have become me,
with the tidal grief that no barrier reef
could hope to bar against,
with the rushing hope like blushing
blood and like spiralling mud
above my ankles being slowly diluted
by oncoming rain overhead
as i turn my face up towards
the aching open wound of sky
and pray to someone who may listen
that i may see you again,
that i may hold you again,
but i have become patient
and wary and careful and
i will wait.
i will wait.
because
it was not when
you were here, and
it was not when you weren't.
it was when i realised you
might not be here again,
that i finally learnt.
***
a/n: and there you are - another fifty poems, of varying degrees of quality. that makes it roughly 150 poems published on this account (unless you don't count the first 50 or so, which i usually don't).
i'm not sure if i'll manage another 50, seeing as i have a school project where i'll be writing many poems that i'm not allowed to post anywhere else. but i don't feel like this is it, either, so i guess we'll see what happens :)
i am incredibly grateful for the people who have stuck with me and read these poems, even though i've been a little insecure about my poetic abilities. but hey ho, we all feel that way sometimes.
all my affection and thanks. all my love.
~ potato
