Ten Ways To Say Goodbye

TWO

We might have been soulmates, you and I.

We might have fought in the sand-pits of our youth, bruised our knuckles, skinned our little teenage knees.

But, as it was, we were lovers, and our arguments played out on a completely different plane altogether, for we were young no more. Drunk on the freedom of adulthood, we feasted on what each of us had to offer the other.

You offered me your soul. It was white and pure and good. You nursed my wounds on those particular nights when I brandished broken bottle, crowbar, carving knife and charged at others in a dark alley lit only by the fires of our fury. I still remember how gently you dabbed at my skin; never had I felt such tenderness, and even if I had, I would never have guessed it could come from you.

You offered me your home. Mistakes are made, you said, tests are failed. And boys - no, men like you find the doors to their homes barred. But you welcomed me in, an exception, to your space, your world, your bed. Your profusion of welcome was touching enough, but you didn't really have to say anything - you were here, that was all I needed. There was nothing to say. So I basked in your presence while you mistook my silence for coldness.

Perhaps we never really saw eye to eye. Perhaps we were never on the same train. Perhaps we were never truly in love.

No.

I was. In love with you, what I thought you were, what I thought you could be. And, I was happy. I found some sort of strength, when you were around, to see the meaning in things; to find the beauty in life. I never said anything, but if you had wanted answers, if confirmation was what you were searching for, you only had to look into my eyes.

Now, again and again, I find myself asking why: why we were scared to share, why we ran away from each other, why we did what we did, why you never told me if you loved me, whether you loved me or not.

Do you know, you left a mark on the bathroom floor? It's shaped like a heart; a reddish-brown heart of a love long dried. And I still can't bear to clean it away. I think I believe it might be yours.

I still miss you, sometimes, when you're away. There's an empty space in bed; my wounds never completely heal. And always, always, there is a shadow of a shadow of a dream about you.

We might have been soulmates, you and I.

Ten Ways To Say Goodbye

ONE

Up up up they ran, to the very top

of the tower

in a flurry of breathlessness.

All was laughter, fleeting touches

of the hand, smiles made

golden by moonlight.

Far below them, the avenues

of the capital of Love

glittered with promises of forever.

He caught her wrist -

She turned to him -

He clumsily brushed lips

against cheek and

knocked her hat to

the wind. They watched

the speck melt into the night's

darkness, then her voice

at his ear, light, playful, reported

that she would be back

with it and more, and he

waited at the railings, gazing

at the stars that had fulfilled

his wishes. He waited

at the edge of the

world - he waited, only

she never came back.

Nine-teen Candles

I remember my breaths measured, slow as I am perched on your cold, gray counter-top. I lean forward and tousle your smooth, dark hair. You rummage through your pockets for a few minutes while I study your face; tracing its contours, taking note of every freckle, the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. You eventually find the white flower we picked up by the pond, and tuck it behind my ear.

I remember sleepy days, sprawled across your bed. Barely speaking, watching the cars go by, the amber glow of the street light signalling that it was time to leave.

I remember thinking; this is the kind of comfortable love that never changes. You are now as I knew you then, all chocolate eyes and baby skin. You are so young in so many ways, but when you speak to this city - its concrete pavements, its brick walls, its structures that soak up its sin - when you perform on stage, you use a language that no longer needs ears to be heard. A language that ties us to something ancient that lives within us, that lives within the bowels of this monstrosity of a metropolis.

I remember clinging to the back of a dark-haired seduction, wind whipping at our faces, opportunity stinging our lips, fire in our fingers and frailty in our hearts.

I remember thinking that I'd rather be in love than in limbo.

I remember the effervescent nights on your floor, where we morphed into one clandestine being, drunk on possibility.

And that I understand - the more things change, the more they stay the same.