Wednesday, May 23

The Ouroboros Project #11 - The Friend

{This one is about an old friend of mine. It's all very maudlin, but then again it is poetry innit}

Back go the pages, a few moons, just a few spans and a few thoughts and regrets wash themselves upon the shore with you posing in the seaweed of creativity, of yesteryear.

Post-prepubescent youth fades with our looming adulthood stalking us, the future beckoning us into the fog and on we walked hand in hand.

And there we are again again again, camels floating into the floral sky, a colour you would describe as mottled. Your word choice was always concisely expressive, ultimately apt, while we scrawled leaf after leaf, our pages, pouring forth into this chasm, this fissure, this invisible mountain I should have called friendship.

In the reflection, we talk, the words bouncing, living, experiences, positivity, the low sun of autumn warming the air, cooling the breeze, speaking of newness. A memory that will never fade. And then there’s a vision of me running through the snow of tomorrow, the air wintery and English, now/then, in the dream.

“I want to kill myself,” I utter, amateurishly. We had the crowd in whateverness, I remember not caring actually, just to do it was wondrous, but maybe it was a prophetic shadow of me being a friend and then not again. I was never sure what I was doing – not quite a leaf in the breeze, but barely a sturdy branch, huh.

And then I told you I would always be there, yes, I wrote down as much sometime or another, I’m fairly sure I used the word always, but I kind of messed that one up didn’t I? Foreshadowing fulfilled – but we were never all cried out.

But the truth is, I thought and think about you most days and still regret not being a better friend. I ponder the friendship that we should of had, had things not been so, ugh, just me being useless at friendship, never sure, never sure and the leaf whirls around the empty castle floor.

Hominids don’t meet many soul mates, maybe one or two before the end of the page, the looming margin. But I think I missed out there and even though we talk, I hope the soul I truly know is well and knows how much you still mean to me, even through the haze of yesteryear to the distant invisible mountain we scaled.

No comments: