Monday, January 31, 2011

In Sorrow Not in Anger

There's 52 Stations on the Northern Line
None of them is yours, one of them is mine...

The very streets themselves are overlayed with memories.

This is the place you went that night when you were drunk.

That's the supermarket where you argued about organic vegetables.

Here's the place you bought her soup when she was sick.

That's the Starbucks where you waited, lost... until you realized you were at the wrong Starbucks.

And the place with the flowers. And the theater where you saw that movie with the actor she liked. The one you can't stand.

And the bar where she kissed you and the street where you fought.

And the corner where she said that horrible thing... that you never got over.

So you stay away from those places, those streets.

But sometimes, late at night, you smell something. And suddenly, you're back there. Many years removed, but still drawn to it.

But you can't participate anymore. You're gone, even though you're still there.

Like a mirror on the wall.

And the silence of the middle of the night lets the memories come rushing in.

Until you can almost see her, smell her hair, reach out to her.

Except she's not there.

She's in your heart. And everywhere you go without her, you carry her memory, you carry her essence.

You carry her still.


whiteray said...

Oh, god. We all have someone like her, and places like those where she stays forever. Damn you for reminding me. And thank you for reminding me.

Who Am Us Anyway? said...

In sorrow, not in anger. Remembering it all -- it's just the way I'm feeling.


OK, so, Mr. Clicks & Pops: Do you have a book I can buy, a fund I can contribute to? (Seriously.)

PS Thanks for the timely prose poetry, as always

PPS If you would just COLLECT the damn shit you've already writ, I'd love to buy it

Alex said...

Working on it, Mr. Who. :)