Walking Without You

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.