You are no more than silence
speaking distantly to me, without a
word or phrase to help me understand
the things you need to say. Yet there
are times I know you think of me,
never guessing that those intimate
and moving pictures held within your
mind and memory somehow are still
a part of me right now.
Then silently, I feel just
where you are;
for every poignant moment of emotion
felt by you is of your spirit opening out,
but not always in a touch of loving bliss.
At times I even see you, somehow
transparently, as if you too, retained a
space in me. Sitting at your desk, now
wishing for an echo of my voice
within your ear; as with a sigh, you
gently put the phone back in its cradle,
never sure what you might say that
would not hurt me even more than this –
your distant silence.
And yet just then, within
your opening out,
a host of strategies appear to me, as if upon
an alien country’s map, and inscribe themselves
inside of me – deeply, tracing routes
somewhere below my conscious mind
in an indentation of their feeling tone.
How did you think our love could e’er
survive this work of endless alibis,
so misconceived or missing that they
turned into the opposite of truth?
I know you deal with an other
nothing much like me at all, and I must
wonder if you have forgotten this, for
you have misconceived your memories of
me, and now you try to play those blaming
games of power with me, here within this
ultimate acceptance that we are, or
at least used to be.
You offer me no more than
moments of you merely acting coy;
a line or two, romantically inclined
typed quickly in; how remote are
your reminders of the love we
knew back then, and your memories
are being swamped by all that you live
now. But yet the truth must tell it all,
for even in your presence of the past
of here now, all of this - this feeling
deep and poignant, that you live right now
was here with you, invading deeply
touches of our intimate and timeless
moments of pure love.
And I find that I must run
- I flee;
I fly so fast away from all those
memories, while in truth, I have
not anywhere to go, for this is home
to me, and here those memories
once lived within a truth of their
But then again, within this
you are no more, than silence speaking
distantly to me...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...