A Catatonic Simian
Ex-Bluelighter
Two years!
Two years since I last stood right here.
And now, today.......I walk back in,
Just to see.
What did I expect to find?
I'm a grown man and I knew it would be
impossible to find you still there.
Well, not in any physical form at least.
I never thought the anniversaries of that day
could end up so ragged, so lost,
so damn lonely!
I wrote "Autumnal" on the blackboard that we used to
chalk our lyrics onto.
It's not even fucking Autumn.
But it was....once.
The piano is still there.
I need you to know that.
We became our own poems for a while,
in that room.
You always furrowed your brow at the
complexities of my writing.
"Unstructured" you called it.
Then smiled.
Leaning across, to kiss me.
Bohemians.
What we had was always going to be
transitory!
I still have all the poems you wrote me,
on that old typewriter.
I used to listen to the keys tapping.
Cutting into the night.
And in the morning there would be beauty,
on paper, behind the clock.
You always left them there.
Your obsession for punctuation always halted
the flow.
I told you this.
I would trade the world for the chance to
tell you it now too.
I left lillies and a poem.
Unstructured.
No punctuation.
I can see you smiling from here.
Rest in peace, honey.
Two years since I last stood right here.
And now, today.......I walk back in,
Just to see.
What did I expect to find?
I'm a grown man and I knew it would be
impossible to find you still there.
Well, not in any physical form at least.
I never thought the anniversaries of that day
could end up so ragged, so lost,
so damn lonely!
I wrote "Autumnal" on the blackboard that we used to
chalk our lyrics onto.
It's not even fucking Autumn.
But it was....once.
The piano is still there.
I need you to know that.
We became our own poems for a while,
in that room.
You always furrowed your brow at the
complexities of my writing.
"Unstructured" you called it.
Then smiled.
Leaning across, to kiss me.
Bohemians.
What we had was always going to be
transitory!
I still have all the poems you wrote me,
on that old typewriter.
I used to listen to the keys tapping.
Cutting into the night.
And in the morning there would be beauty,
on paper, behind the clock.
You always left them there.
Your obsession for punctuation always halted
the flow.
I told you this.
I would trade the world for the chance to
tell you it now too.
I left lillies and a poem.
Unstructured.
No punctuation.
I can see you smiling from here.
Rest in peace, honey.
