If you’ve come back

Boston Post, Massachusetts, October 7, 1920

 

You look like you’re going to leave me again.

You kiss fervently, deeply – you’re not here to stay.

You smile more, caress my arms, hold on to my waist, stare at me longer.

If you’ve come back to hurt me, look right at me, 

do it quick, don’t give me time to look away.

 

Picture Credit – Boston Post, Massachusetts, October 7, 1920

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Give rise

Winter (The Flood), 1660, Nicolas Poussin

This forest can bow and bend and shelter my nights

it can awaken in my dreams

melodiously,

not unlike the path of the Earth giving rise to the sun.

 

Art work – Winter (The Flood), 1660, Nicolas Poussin

made of fear

 

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her grey hair lifts from where it spreads across the pillow,

she wakes in a sweat.

she believes in her dreams,

paying close attention to the man wielding the axe,

made of wisps, made of fear.

she moves to stand up.

surrendering to her will, surrendering his axe,

the man lies down on her mattress, engulfed in her scent,

dreaming of ashen tresses,

and of slender arms lifting a glistening axe.

 

it’s colder now

the vision 1880 unknown photographer

 

this house does not creak,

it’s too brand new.

nothing settles at night.

the ghosts of our pasts

stampede in silence

skirting past lamps and vases,

cautious around the cat.

the season has changed,

it’s colder now

and the tree may come out soon.

joy will have come and gone,

no one will have noticed,

for the eeriness

dampening all sound.

remote

Sandal Soles - Medieval Art @ MET

she knows a person she’s never touched yet

physically

just a soul she’s encountered from afar

someone with moods and likes and jokes and heart ache

same station, opposite platform,

a breathing figure

not reaching out for anything,

just waiting for something good to come by,

just like she is.

so they’re both just sitting here (and there)

with vague ideas about things etc.

one stands up to get a snack from the vending machine,

the other thinks that maybe she’ll do the same.

melancholic, yet nothing close to it.

she knows what it’s like to be alone in a small place,

yet certainly not lonely everywhere.

there’s someone else, quite like her, quite like.

both just wonder what the other would do

if the platforms were to merge into a great hall,

but feed that thought no further.

why-cause the separation is the wait

for a carriage to take each one

where they’re meant to go.

the divide assumes no company is needed

for any distance, for any while.

so the passengers sit where they are,

waiting to board a train,

both turn their heads to the sound

of a fog horn.

right there on those rail tracks that isolate the platforms,

is an anchoring ship.