The nights are starting to stretch into early
evenings – where there once was a boundless
sun spilling all the warm hues on the sky,
a bottomless void has been left in the wake
of its disappearance as if it were swallowed
Two years ago, I wrote to you.
It was pleasantly cool, the breeze had notes
of an arctic chill, but the sun recovered just
enough strength as to not freeze us,
a perfect transition into the wintry months –
of course, I would be filled with yearning.
In the poem I’ve penned to you,
I’ve spilt some of that yearning;
partly since it was easier than
splitting myself vertically to show
you my heart, and partly because
I wanted a reminder of what
unchecked nostalgia, and yearning
does to one.
One year ago, I wrote to you.
It felt colder, but I think the sun was
whisked away in nostalgia that day too,
but I reached a tipping point and spilt
a bit more of the yearning than I should
have, pouring all the light that was
cocooning, over you in a sleepy ode
Maybe I’m a little bit wiser now,
a little bit more patient, or maybe
the yearning burned through me
and this is all just numbness –
I do not know, and whatever
I think I’m okay with it.
I can’t promise you a cessation
in the poetry, but with each
passing year, the heart hurts
a little less.
Perhaps the day will come when Octobers are
no longer reserved as the flashpoint for my yearning,
and the cooler nights are an invitation for lattes,
and not an excuse to write scores of poetry as a
memorandum to this sad vessel of love that has
never been drank.
Oh, I’ve forgotten to tell you –
the trees are slowly cascading into autumn colours,
it feels a bit premature but much of this year has been
unusual, hasn’t it? A few houses down, there is a tree
with the most vibrant red leaves to the point of looking
unnatural. Even stranger is that I haven’t seen any
of the blackbirds in the past few weeks, the October
sun has been warmer, why would they migrate now?
I suppose this year marks a departure for customs.
Well almost –
today marks the fifth day in a row
I’ve dreamt of you – drenched by the pouring rain,
you were painted a sodium orange as you stood
under the lone working streetlamp,
the evening sky was quickly bleeding into
a rosy pink from a mauve, and you stood there,
holding a leash to a wolf.
The rain breaks, and we turn to see the
murmuration, your eyes darted across the
sky as you watched the dance of starlings,
as my heart turned to cotton,
and all the soft words in my throat
dissipated, I gently sigh and
anchor my gaze on you,