The longest day is when you are not here;
I felt surrounded like a glove by you, and I was save.
We watched the blackbird make a nest.
You stayed, to drink and pick the berries
that we planned to eat, we were together,
doing well, but not for always.
The air now finds its way over my arms,
my shoulders, before going back to sea.
I shiver as you are not here to glove me.
Since you went, I felt your absence as a draught,
as if your breath is still with me.
The blackbird sings, but you don’t hear it.
You left a memory that might do well
on colder days, but it’s no shelter
when it rains. When days are grey.
The longest day has started,
the young birds left the nest.
I’m waiting for this day to end.
There is no meaning in the seasons,
not now I wait for you to love me too.
The days should shorten,
cold should come. It doesn’t.
Maybe you have forgotten me, like the seasons have.
I didn’t eat the fruit,
with my consent the black bird took it
and this day goes on and on.
I am always waiting for its end.
This is a repost from a year ago