Monday, November 23, 2015

The colour of intensity

When leaving this ship
That carried us for so many years, there was
No path paved with flowers
Cold earth and pointed stones
Painted the soles of our feet
Red, the colour of crust that hardened our skin
The same colour as the toy car
Fading in your childhood garden
Stalled in an eternal autumn
I didn’t own these memories
You engraved them in my nervous system
Now I carry them for you and you carry my groceries
Very pragmatic and simple and easily taken for granted

We walk, flakes on our lashes
Filling our traces with names
That turn into poetry
When written into snow
Whitewashed wonderland
Whose prerogative?
Whose love?
Whose hatred and whose promises?
Salty tears in everyone’s cup.
Do I really have to tell you this?

Your ship will always differ from mine. And I will think of you
Smoking at the window, looking down into a street
That is nothing but a memory. I wished
I could rebuild the city around your view of emptiness
Empty houses, empty pavements, I could relay
Those warm, pulsating arteries. But I cannot. I can
Only listen and write. So we do not forget
The colour of intensity
The colour of regret