Walking Without You
In the summer we walked
catching sunbeams on our upturned smiles,
smiling because our faces had forgotten
how to frown.
And the sun fell softly
and the time moved slowly
and if there were clouds, we didn't see them
because our eyes were closed.
A day and a season later, we walked
and I caught leaves coloured like campfires
and laughed, but you said we had to run;
the rain was coming.
And the leaves fell softly
and the time moved slowly,
and a storm built up
and blew all the colours away.
A day and a season later, I walked
behind you and in step
struggling to keep up. The snow spiralled
in lazy flakes, and I tried to catch them,
– tiny and perfect –
on my tongue, but I always missed.
And the snow fell softly
and the time moved swiftly
and I slipped, and you didn't slow down
to catch me.
A day and a season later I passed you
on the street.
I tilted my smile towards you and the rain
ran down my neck to my ribs and I shivered
because you didn't smile back.
And the sky fell softly
and the time moved sadly
and the rain ran along the ribs of your umbrella,
washing the world away.
Yesterday, a year ago, we walked
The sun seemed brighter then,
and the streets were shorter,
and you held my hand, and I never slipped
even though my eyes were shut.
And the tears fall softly
and the time moves slowly,
and I walk today with eyes wide-open,
and nothing is the same.