My Point Was
My point was - I'm sad we are not in touch so much. We don't touch much. We keep in touch. We don't dream or sleep or eat or talk much. We don't walk arm in arm much. We have drifted off into memory states un-united. Unrequited much.
You were my island not a pole star. You were my whole world. My love, my lover, my soul mate. My soul cries out in the night for you and wakes me up and says, "Where is she?" and "When will we see her again?".
And I say, "Mind the shallows. Look out for the rocks there" and, "She doesn't want us back". So we turn about, head for deeper water, I whisper, "...look how I use a comma now". We - mind, heart and old soul, try and comfort each other, distract ourselves with this and that, joke, invent new stories, play cards, really nothing works for long. We tell each other, "This too shall pass". I don't feel lessening. Loss is always there like a shadow of a black dog I used to know still sleeping in the corner of my mind. I call her out loud.
I know in the blackness I clutch at rushes and straw. The storm abates but more awaits. Traps are baited. A chance to see you again. A hope you will forgive. Looking for shadows of doubts in between your resolute words that are not there. Deep fears, I won't ever see you again. I live with that.
I say, "Mind the shallots. Look out for the rooks there" and, "She doesn't want it back". So we turn, head in deep thoughts I whisper, "…look how I use a comma now" and then, the shape shifters like the dark horses swimming in unconscious waters, stories I don’t know the meaning of replay and reply like echoes in my mind. The black birds, the screaming pigs, the barking dog in the night. The ancient paths. A magnetic field, your stories embedded in the land from the gallows to paradise.
All of it, as if glimpsed once, from the window of a high tower. Memories in dust of a dark maze interior furnished with outsized cabinets, painted by madmen. Rooms full of clothes, dog eared cushions, wardrobes full of panic, ricketed chairs lit by fireflies. Sleeping on piles of mattresses on squealing beds, tripping tippy toed cross squeaking floors, falling endlessly into bathrooms steamy still with damp disrobed daughters discarded bathrobes and forgotten swim suits resonant of teen spirit, passionate yurt nights of snogs and frottage.
Fading memories of shoes stretchers hung high and brow low head banging cooker hoods, glass lights and holy decks. Falling in gardens overgrown, knee high with muddy boots and blown mossy Buddha. Remembering misread symbols of departed family lives. They were planning to take over for some time.
Dawn here now and the dark mare is trotting down the track. The quad bike is quiet now and only the occasional off roader scurries by in my head. Helicopters hover, hoover up the mist as I'm up pulling back curtains and calling sleepy daughters. Nose wrinkling porridge burns gently on the hob. Guests call to be met at 4. Chocolate on pillows. Flowers on cills, silly word games. Dusting architraves, sanding spandrels, spit on stove polishing as old knees crack and cackle, laughing as this old man, in pyjamas again, wandering lost in thoughts, carpeted corridors, in hedge mazed dreams - of you. Still amazed. Breathing now and again.
Still with love.
Writ Mar 2016, by David Spathaky
October 14th, 2018