I no longer wax poetic

beyond the windowpane
someone asks, "where has he gone?"
and i remember you

and how it used to be:
sunlight
congealing into pools like
maple syrup dripped, from the edges

of a silver spoon,

on the knotted threads we shared
of memories just outside the room
reflecting light like glass

and when we slept

we hid our losses
until morning steadied in the treetops

i haven’t forgotten you
and that white butterfly

that wanders the edges
of a green and misty sky where
clouds slide together in the slanting light
all our poems are intact there
and the sky is as blue as that water
you always used to write about

I used to write. A lot. I wrote what I knew. I wrote clichés about touch, kisses, butterflies and of course, heartache and loss. I wrote because I felt these things so strongly and never felt more alive or open. I wrote because I wanted to remember the feeling of being able to grab someone’s hand and run through the field or lay down and look at the stars. I even wanted to remember how heartache felt, because we often learn the most from that.

These days the world is so much heavier. Losses tear my heart out and happiness only feels temporary. People seem meaner and sadder and more self-involved. Christmas feels like a chore. Everything feels like a battle. I keep fighting them but I am definitely losing some of them – and some of them I have to walk away from before I lose what is left of myself.

I wish I could blame it on the year. ‘2020 sucks’ says t-shirts, ornaments, masks and bumper stickers. It’s not the year though is it? Sure I can say a LOT has happened this year, but January 1, 2021 will feel no different than December 31, 2020. A calendar change won’t make everything better. It’s just a mark in time, a way to remember some wonderful or horrible thing. I want to say 2020 has been the worst year of my life, and I guess that would be true, but 2021 will not make the events of 2020 any easier. It won’t fix our losses or heartbreaks. I can only pray that the world can feel more hope again- that maybe that sense of a “new year” will bring conviction and a renewed sense of love and happiness. Maybe the world won’t feel such a huge weight, even just for short time.

But for now I sit, pen in hand, blank paper in front of me and no idea what to write.

Comments

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And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

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