Friday, October 29, 2010

in the year you left

Credit for the inspiration goes to Christopher.

In the year you left

You thought you kept them hidden,
those confused thoughts of yours,
as you tried to walk dignified
out of my life and away
down the street. You tuned out
 
my bitter laugh as I read through
your bluster to see
you so flustered. I knew then
just how well my game had worked,
how clearly I had won
the final prize of my own
dry, empty heart.
 
Come back, I thought,
but the chance for tenderness
had passed, and now
my hand lay still, the chill
creeping slowly across its palm.

Rachel Westfall
October 29, 2010

8 comments:

christopher said...

Oh Lordy, this one gave me shivers and tears. I'll be back shortly.

Rob-bear said...

Another lost soul, indeed.

So very sad.

Rick said...

Rach
no doubt, when that last chance for tenderness passes, it's time to dig the hole and surely the chill will follow.
Wonderfully told
~rick

christopher said...

The Drunken Lover

I just have to go,
no choices left or my brain
will melt and drain out
both my broken ears.

Your last word's been said to me,
said at me, really,
over and over
and my flesh has been burned off
my shattered sad bones.

I had hoped for change
and you reply with Vodka,
vanilla extract,
and a refusal
to put it all down or make
that last fucking cake.

RachelW said...

Christopher, I seem to have channeled someone else. :) It's all good. I did some experimental vanilla and almond extract when I was 14, along with a variety of liqueurs; I remember the misery.

christopher said...

I didn't even in the least aim at you in this one but it is what your poem brought up in me. I do have this scene in my past. So this poem is in a glancing way historical.

christopher said...

I am very happy to know there is nothing like this in you. However there is something like this in me and in my life.

RachelW said...

Christopher, I think that's what I mean by channeling.

This stuff comes to me, but not necessarily out of my own experiences. If it's triggering some memory for you, I have to wonder where I got the idea from in the first place.

I'm very glad, too, that this isn't my story. There's enough of it in my family for me to know (and fear) its face, though.