Observatory Street 5 – Aftermath A poem for Hennin60 at his suggestion I am sure this is not what was meant but

I hope it prompts a nod “yeah, maybe.” Picture and italics are from Hennin60 and used by permission Please read the Observatory Street series, 1 – 4 by Hennin60 here on SCRIBD

I’m tired now of Observatory Street, Its narrowness and coloured houses Filled to the eaves with ghosts, Each a voice urging me to leave With yours much the loudest. My voice may have been loud, But it was urging you to continue! I sensed you, Poet, from afar. I think I saw you, once, when I looked over my left shoulder There in the mirror, taking a picture? Was that you? It doesn’t matter. I HEARD you. Your voice burgeoned in me a change, It was a soft voice watching me, over me, As if from afar, and yet closer than an angel’s breathing The tickle on the back of my neck sweet and horrible.

This voice sought to read me, and placed in my mind Injections of a touch, a smile, a curve… Visions and thoughts of lives unlived And yet, through the scarlet unwinding I have lived another life as if it were My own. Indeed I now wonder which of my lives is THE life, Which is real, or which I want. No, I know which I want. Because of you for the first time I was a great lover of a mysterious woman, “The long flow of your hair, The nervousness of your hands…” Oh, what you didn’t see, The life we had in a brown brick home Next to the river Avalon, Where I would catch a fish with a net on a summer day And she would cook it for us as the sun melted Before we retired to the bedroom, Where I enjoyed those hands. The nervousness made it all the more tender. The merest hint of your voice, Poet, Showing the merest hint of worlds And I was there, living life to the fullest Life like I never lived here. Living in this dream enough to have cried, finally, Over “The slam of the door, A litter of unwritten letters, The suffocating silence.” I never knew how to cry before this. But now you have left, silent observer, Dreamer of my dreams, Implanter of that most grand of emotions, Love gained and lost. Her “steamy voyage” is now a void in my heart On an ocean still and searching for atonement: No sail can catch a wind that is missing. I am writing this now, from a different location. You don’t know this, because you had left, Though you must have guessed, detective that you are. Did you know the bike in front of the window was mine? You were gone before I got on the bike Although I listened for you while I pedaled away,

Just one more person, returned to the faceless mass Moving through the milling of the urbane city Moving through a life that was once more mundane and alone. I am drinking a pint, it sits half-foamed on the corner of this desk A dark antique from my grandmother. I have only the one wobbly yellow light on, And a soft guttering candle, its wick in need of trimming. It is enough to write by. Enough to put this down. I don’t Want to forget your voice. I don’t Want to forget the life I experienced, Her, a whole life in an hour. I don’t want to forget her walking away, In the stillness of vanishing memory. I think what I am sad about is this: Not knowing. Did she come back to me? Ever? My fate is in the hands of my puppeteer! I now “travel between relationships” Though I fear I travel between the back lanes of madness Fates that call to me over the hum and strum of my life. I travel between here and now, you and her. Now what? You are a ghost, floating in my mind Becoming more and more veneer and tattered shadow Moving out now, unfelt, unseen but your presence Forever filled me with looking over my shoulder Or shutting my eyes, and hoping. Did you know that she told me I was her life? I will miss her rivers of silver laughter Over dinner and wine, across candles lit By joined hands and locked eyes. As you are done with me, I…yes, I think I must be done with this, save for one thing. My extinguished prayer sends tendrils of a once-lit candle Left on the table when I leave Pinched by hands unused to writing but It is my statement of hope The dying imprint of light in the push of night.

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