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.

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Is she the type of woman who exclaims that she is lonely only four times then goes quiet?

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She plucks the guitar strings and I see them vibrate close up.

Her hands are apt to play a precise and serene number.

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Her hands on my back, my arms, arms. She is in a dress from the op shop. Then she's naked.

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Maybe she is more dark than my deepest yearnings.

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She waits at the bus stop. Four days a week. Watching the rain drip from the trees.

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We have coffee even in the evening now. I wake up late but she stays next to me on Saturday morning.

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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?

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I heard her crying. I came in and sat with her with my hands clasped together as a contemplative would.

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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.

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A younger version of me. Let that sink in. Let time unfold.

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Three years later.

I am alone, you know.

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IN