in these quiet small hours of the night
Remember that night we sat on your doorsteps
talking after the party. Your hair was longer
back then; I had wine stains on my sundress.
You said it felt good to be here, and I
laid my head on your shoulder. Remember
we were laughing. Remember we laughed
so hard that even the sky chuckled,
and then the clouds parted,
and love,
raindrops, and lips
fell.
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The intimacy contained within
the exchange of a glance, a nod
of the head, a smile.
The closeness that lasts
for the duration of a song
listened together.
An agreement about a feeling.
An agreement about life.
You feel like the deep
exhale after a long day
the quiet fireplace
in my hollowed chest
I want to lie forever
inside your pocket
You are sunset.
You are nostalgia.
You are home.
May you wake up in time
to catch the last lingering star
leaving quietly into the haze of dawn
Know that it was there
Know that it gave you light
Not as dazzling as the blazing sun
But it loved you
It love you quietly
through the darkest night
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If you think about it carefully, our goodbye
has begun the moment we said hello.
And then, through fighting and lovemaking,
through tenderness and forgiveness,
we spend the rest of our time together
trying to make this the longest
and most beautiful goodbye
we ever have to utter to each other.
When he kissed you slowly;
when he called you baby;
when he held your hand and
carefully traced his thumb
over the back of your hand;
when he pulled you close
and said, ‘stay, we have so much time.’
These were the moments,
small, quiet, euphoric moments
that look liked love, felt like love,
that could almost be love.
But every night when you fell
asleep, your heart remained still;
It didn’t ache nor flutter;
It didn’t hope nor despair.
So you know, you know, oh
you must know,
it never was love.
After work she went to the store
to pick up coffee filters and diapers,
a carton of eggs and
a bag of day-old raisin bread.
The tomatoes were on sale that day,
At the canned goods aisle she forgot
what she needed to get from there.
Was it cream of mushroom or baked beans?
She stood there quietly for a long while,
trying to remember,
how did she end up here?
Back home there are dishes
to be washed, trash to be taken out.
A small child crying.
A man who pretends not to hear.
And the sun is quietly disappearing
behind its own purple haze.
Two grocery bags,
heavy as iron in her arms,
and she was miles
and miles away from home.
SW Altair 