Tired Eyes
A little sad poem
I find her. I find her.
There. Carrot skins falling out from her hands.
There. She stands in the kitchen where the salts stand.
Here.
.
Is she the type of woman who exclaims that she is lonely only four times then goes quiet?
.
She plucks the guitar strings and I see them vibrate close up.
Her hands are apt to play a precise and serene number.
.
Her hands on my back, my arms, arms. She is in a dress from the op shop. Then she's naked.
.
Maybe she is more dark than my deepest yearnings.
.
She waits at the bus stop. Four days a week. Watching the rain drip from the trees.
.
We have coffee even in the evening now. I wake up late but she stays next to me on Saturday morning.
.
She says to me that I am still alive, and that their is still hope for me.
She believes in me. Isn't that something?
.
I heard her crying. I came in and sat with her with my hands clasped together as a contemplative would.
.
I speak to the hopeful guard at the pub three days later. It seems a younger version of me would have tried to hold on to her.
.
A younger version of me. Let that sink in. Let time unfold.
.
Three years later.
I am alone, you know.
.
IN


ohhh i love this .