The more we speak of days we were not here,
the less we seem to catch the time we spent,
away for good it is, the atmosphere,
the special light on holidays we went.
This little cottage where we made our child,
now as we stand here both in bygone’s shade,
the flowers, that we seeded, growing wild
and on the wall the drawing you once made.
The picture seems about another place.
We could restore this house and bring it back,
I want to see that smile there on your face.
Come on, let’s be in love, oh what the heck!
The time has changed a lot for us I know,
but if we try, we need not it let go.
I hope this is a Shakespearean sonnet
I think of you while I am in this odd position, opposite the window, my legs in a sort of yoga bend way, but still relaxed, as I do nothing. I watch. Clouds, blue pieces of sky, clouds again. I do nothing.
My eyes start to water, my legs hurt now. I won’t do anything. I am not thinking of you, am I. Clouds go by.
Every shape is your face. I do nothing. I feel nothing. I am getting over.
It is getting darker, but slowly, and I didn’t notice till now. It is cold. I have to lift myself up. Out of this position, away from this window. The clouds are now moonlit hills. I have to lift myself up. The cat needs food.
I can only crawl. My legs are stung by hundreds of bees.
I grab a pillow and close my eyes. Over you. I have to be over you now. Lift myself up.
I wake up when the sun shines in my face. And again I think of you. Another day starts. More clouds.
I am not here at all.
My body is numb.
I am away for a bit.
Out of myself.
my own world.
I am not here.
Don’t look me up,
I like it where I am.
I am in a bubble
drifting away from it all
coping with your absence.
entry for bluebellbooks slam week 11