when they're gone

when they’re gone, we’ll be here
waiting patiently, as all the good ones do
to bring you out and home
and free from every dark, spoiled corner
you know.
You’ve forgotten the insides of my room.
your dresses no longer know the texture of my floor.
and everything beautiful has dimmed to trap doors
you can’t seem to dig your way out of.
In the summers, you and I
used to run wild and silly
across the mountain fields through
Indian paintbrushes, free as clouds
and not waiting, not wanting, just here
and beautiful.
Sometimes, we’d sit
in the hot summer sand,
white beaches of grand caymon
and sigh, sipping back those drinks
with the straws in them
so carefully watching the sea
and everything it brought and left with.
But you, like me in those days
were so young and fine
you only saw the ships passing,
however much you spoke of the sea kissing the sand.
So then, I should have watched chasing some nearby steamship
to wherever it was going. You had plans
about how beautiful it all would be.
But lately, you’re just been
one steamship to another
one lounge chair to the next,
not really resting in any of them.
One day they’ll go on without you
like they always do, running from wave-chasers
that always block the road for them
(they see you how you saw me).
When they’re gone, we’ll be here
not for new but to know
that once you had one and it was
good.


2004-10-22 | 11:36 a.m.
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