The last thing that comes to mind
isn’t the spectre of your voice,
nor the dance,
nor the loudest scream you ever made,
nor the stomp in the ground or the cough or the walk,
nor the throwing objects at my face,
nor the disturbed room you left in your wake.
It’s the note you played.
That one time,
when you knew where you were,
where the silence came to you
and nothing else did,
where you were truly,
deeply,
alone.
Where you didn’t even see me standing right in front of you, the glass seemed,
a brick wall,
a vault with lock and key,
and you stopped not when I said so,
or when you heard me,
but when you wanted to.
I know not what made you turn off that quiet
introspection
but I know that now,
you’re not yourself,
and I don’t like it.
I don’t know how to stop,
or make you happy again,
I don’t know where to go
or who I’m supposed to shatter,
or where I’m supposed to look,
since you seem to infer from me signs no matter where,
no matter what I say.
It is as if you do not want me here.
But I know that when you were happiest, you had me right here.
Behind a glass pane as thick as a wall.
And I know that I can make you happy again.
If you just let me try
and let you be quiet,
if you just breathe,
and stop, and play that note again.
And all you say,
All you do,
is as if reproaching me.
As if you do not want me.
But what have I done
other than accept you for what you are?
Thoughts:
This is one side to another poem, written here. They should be read together.
I wrote this fast. I don't know if you can tell, but it grabbed me, right by the strings and pulled me along. I was listening to "A Violent Noise" on the XX's new album, and just kept listening to it. If you do, you can probably sense some similar themes, maybe, but at least, I just felt I wanted to lavish there for a bit.
Bear in mind. This is not a happy poem. It's also unlike anything I've written before. I rarely write about relationships. Yet here we are.