The ears have walls

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

I walked across the same bridge every night on the way home from your house.
On the left side the river curved away from me
And towards the rest of the world.
On the right a gentle slope that led up to the reservoir
Grew thicker and greener with the lengthening shadows of summer.
D'ya remember the time that I threw your hat over the edge?
You were angry at first but then started to laugh
We chased it for what seemed like hours
Down the winding route that the river had cut into the earth.

Your father always knew that we were something more than friends.
We'd pass eachother in the High street, him and I.
Me on foot and him behind the wheel of his fancy German car.
He'd slow down almost to a crawl and slide his eyes towards where I was.
Those eyes would always remind me of you when you frowned
You'd deny it and then spend ages squinting at yourself in the mirror
While I tried to convince you that I could barely notice the resemblance.
I would lie quietly in the bed and watch you
As you brushed your hair before crawling in beside me.
The world began and ended with those late summer mornings
Those fragile moments that seemed so easy back then
Now evaporate as dreams that disappear with waking.

The bed you used to sleep in remembers you
By the gentle contours that your body made as you lay.
That lazy hollow in the centre of a linen sea
Exists only to amplify the fact that you're not here.
It's in loss we're meant to come to understand
The wider entwined roads our lives lead us down,
But it's a clarity that comes at far too high a cost.
Somehow my feet find the ground when I walk
And my mouth forms the words that I use.
The shell is still whole and unbroken
And lies for the sake of the rest of me
Which cowers and starts at the slightest sound.
I'm newborn and helpless without you.


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