When that glass window is my friend
so too, hers
and both of us lost
both of us engaged
in that uncertain drama,
in something so vile it turned our stomachs and guts into
piles of squeamish liquid:
When that music in my ears is my lover
so too, hers
and both of us separately entranced
both of us “some other where”
in that lost lost place
we call
home.
Sometimes I will try to coax her out, while
the days pass by
all in place, the city glare
and the hanging humid air…
sometimes this small age of uncertainty
is the age of vulnerability,
as the gentle days go by
without a warm embrace
I enter the world where
the one man makes the other man feel
ashamed for being himself,
while telling the world
he needs to be himself,
and pressing upon you
the urge to be like him
making you forget
you were just normal
to begin with.
now, eight days later in the rocking bus
enshrouded in my own solitude
I think of the girl I didn’t really love
and the boys I never really knew
but practically died trying to:
I look back through the window
and I am trying to be alone with myself
without her prim-rosy face
which is turned the other way
to face the other window,
and as the day slowly fades
she is losing herself in herself–
but I couldn’t be her,
and I couldn’t blame her.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
PS.
I do not own this picture–I should probably start saying that, since I did get a camera. Unless this is a photography post, or I specifically state it, I do not own the pictures I use in my posts. Okay, Bye!
Golden Star Poetry 