I never knew you
but I can’t stop mourning by
Pretending
Deifying the things that we could have done
in the mind with closed eyes, I see
I hear it all.
Your voice would have been a dull grey
Diffident, raspy, the needle against black
circles which do not complete their course
They stay still
Like how you were,
and are.
Faded, you are more alive to me
than you had ever been right now
But I know your shade leaves no trace
of its passing, as much as I wish
it would.
There are no shadows that can be seen,
yet I feel yours against the veil of my eyes
Your fingernails grate painfully, seeking
entry, but I refuse, another time:
Another time.
I don’t suppose ‘another time’ will ever arrive
for you, for me, there never was the meeting
where you could have turned your face either way
or even looked through me, as I look through you
By conjuring magic balls of memories
these skulls with malicious grins
Printed words of fire that reveal
an emptiness within.
Love begets regret, but I have none of the former
Only too much of the latter, and a professional curiosity
about the things you used to do
the things you used to say
Did you ever once think of me, because
I had never thought about you
And in that, I have my answer.
Maybe I should feel a little more, on the
left, for other matters such as a
Broken record
Captured colours
A tentative kiss between fingers
Or silent smoked words
Stay with me, but you
don’t, and aren’t you supposed to be
Important.
But you aren’t.
Not surprising, really,
the apathy derides.
Or so I say.
Your legacy speaks to you, but you remain
Deaf (no fault of yours, I admit)
The weightless cross is mine to
bear, so I promise to think
about who you were
about who you loved
Nice safe thoughts, such as
the sweet universal breath of air, you
must have tasted that, a finite number
Didn’t you?
How was it like?
Were you aware?
I have more questions than I thought
But they border on the mundane.
As they should.
It’s that strange bittersweet pang, that
the what ifs had never once been, and
only to realize this after
irrevocable loss?
This particular loss is far bigger than
my regret, that
I had never, and that I will
never be able to see your face
apart from your clones, plastered
between the dusty pages
of secret manuals.
Do you mind, if I become
the silent (and deluded) witness
to the black-and-white time
that you had left
behind?
Ah, cacophonic silence.