It won’t come back…
I’ve got the words,
real and unmistakably mine,
in angsty teenage-scrawling.
I’ve got the images, slightly damaged,
yet still pretty clear,
on my good ole’ meaningful moments-hard drive.
I even have the smells,
less pungent,
yet no lesser in meaning, since the days long gone.
But…it won’t come back.
I am still me, yet at the same time, I’m not.
And you…well: you’re still you, just…no longer to me.
It won’t come back…
Yet, I still have the power to put us together in this poetical pasture…
Artistic license, you know?
The old you and the old me,
together…
Only for a short while,
to make sure there's just enough time...
For you to take my hand and make me smile,
for you to make me believe in myself again.
God, it’s so warm in your presence...
All the while, I’m looking up to you,
In every sense of the word.
My awe is cut short by a dreaded goodbye.
It comes knocking way too soon…
I’m weeping internally and way beyond,
it turns colder...
You do your utmost to cheer me up,
grazing my arm one last time.
You disappear,
your impression plummets into my heart, my soul, my brain…
my all merging with my being.
I disappear,
shrink down into the ground.
“Please come back, warm me with your smile, water me with your words,”
begs the wilting flower, that is supposed to be me.
But…you won’t come back,
and neither will I.
Our bond has come and gone,
as has my past.
“It won’t come back!”
echoes through my pasture.
A pasture contaminated with drought,
freezing and barren.
It won’t come back...
©Laure Winkelmans