Fluorescence
It’s not the passing of seasons that I mourn,
The way the swallows sing just out of earshot,
The way I turn my head like a lost child
Searching
for that last piece of hope.
It’s the way everyday drives the wedge deeper.
I pace in silence and the walls shrink,
I say these words and all expectation is destroyed,
I’m sorry, I always get the timing wrong,
You said it ruins the moment.
I’m sorry.
You turned the page, yet, I’m still writing on this one.
You put on a coat,
every new winter,
that I’ve never seen,
The years hum a melody I have turned my back on,
I was unimpressed at the time.
But idealisation leaves you empty-handed,
The light of a sun turning out to be a fluorescent lamp.
Image credits: Carus, C. G. (1854), Park with a Fountain in the Moonlight.