You weren’t supposed to leave, you know.
We had talked about this the night before,
About how long we’ve spent sitting,
Feet dangling in the water,
Testing the temperature with our toes,
To see if The Fountain was warm enough yet,
By the /perfect/ bath of morning’s light.
Even my blind mind’s eye can still see clearly,
That distant and tired look your wore,
As you shifted closer to sleepily wonder:
“When’s it supposed to be our turn?”
Foolish me let silence serve as an answer,
Since I couldn’t trust my voice with any semblance of an answer.
I was and am crippled by the same crutch that,
Like all my selves before me,
Was all that let me rise up from the dirt:
The end begets the beginning,
Pulling causality backwards down the line,
Towards the only conclusion that fate could have woven.
But we were intertwined, weren’t we?
Our strands tied and folded,
Frayed and braided together,
Until you couldn’t see the separation.
How could it be,
That you would be pulled away,
Without me feeling the phantom tug,
Which had always led me back to you,
When either of us would stray too far into the dark?
I’ve exhausted myself,
Pulling on that rope,
Hoping for some guidance,
In the form of resistance.
But there is no sign from the other side,
Other than our bond being broken,
And I am free,
Falling without a lifeline,
Screaming out my answer,
In the silent theatre of my mind,
Just /one/ moment too late:
“It already was.”
—
Time always seems to be slipping out,
The moment that I step through the door.
I can see Her shadow lingering in my peripheral haze,
Hanging in the still air just a moment too short,
For me to convince myself,
That is was Her.