This was the first poem I wrote that got me passionate about poetry as an art form. Enjoy.
It’s a cold, wet, gray, fall day. You look out the window and notice that the brilliant shades of orange which dominated the trees have now given way to brown and bareness. You realize that life is temporary, and that one day, you yourself will fade from the brilliant orange you are now. You tear up and water splashes onto the oak desk which lies below your chin. The temporariness of it all for some odd reason feels you with pained nostalgia, and yet bittersweetness all at the same time.
The rain takes you back to that wet summer day when you first kissed the love of your life. You remember everything; Her beautiful sea green eyes and how all problems seemed so far away when you allowed yourself to get lost inside of them. The way you two use to hold hands together, and just talk about anything which came to mind. That feeling of utter bliss despite the fact that you were just sitting together, with each other in silence.
You smile and appreciate the memory, but yet feel a slight sting of pain as the memories continues to tell its tale. A fight breaks out. A misunderstanding arises. Your frustrations start to bloom, and her love starts to wither. The memory skips to your driveway. She says goodbye, you say good luck. That old 03 yellow sedan rumbles down the horizon. Out of sight, out of time. You are taken back to the present now. You think about it, and then you decide against it. You think about it again, and then you talk yourself down. You look at your drink, and then you look at the phone. You pick up the phone and call. The first ring. The second ring. She answers. You reply, “it’s me”. Silence fills the gap. She responds in shock and ask’s, “why are you calling?”. You respond, “I was thinking about you and wanted to know how you were doing”.
An awkward conversation comes into being which slowly evolves into one that is meaningful. The two of you start to fall back into your old familiar roles. You then tell her your feelings. “I want what we had, I want you…..” Silence fills the phone again. Finally after what seems like a lifetime she says I don’t know…. familiar doubts infect the conversation once again. The phone call ends like an impressionist painting. You’ve taken away an interpretation of wishfulness but the whole situation is unsure. Your perspective is being shaped by an emotional state of hope, and the lighting of this painting is being dictated by the way words were cast like shadows over the suggestive tones of possibility, perhaps even something more. You sit in silence. Contemplation is the word of the day and angst is its companion.
You said you promised….
Did it mean anything?
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