Dear old friend, it’s me again. Lost of words at the start, forgive me. I know it’s been a tradition. Standing there, often blankly. Often succeeded by an occasional smile. Rare times, a quick wink. And oh! Would you look at that? You winked back almost just as fast. What’s your story? The story of those eyes, I see you drown in. The longingness that drips off of your gazes, as empty at times. The distant smile, once true, now just shallow. I can’t help but drown in it, your nostalgic trance. In your deep, deep, blue ocean.
I look on, searching, for that spark. That once razed us from the inside out. All I see is smoke. And ashes. A graveyard full of chances. Dark trenches of ‘what if’s. And ruins, of what once was true. I look for the things we once held dear. Believed in. Prayed on. Contemplating now, on what we dreamt before. All I see is emptiness. I look for a wink of sleep left. For this house needs it. Plenty of it.
I’m sorry if it’s too much to take in after so long. Your teary eyes leave mine misty. I snap, I’m sorry. ‘Look the other way a little. Not sure if it’s shame, pitty, or anything in between. The red has definitely spread the middle. And I’m not sure if the pain surpassed my numbing limits. Now, my tears are red. I turn back, expressionless. I grin, and you do back. I start to walk, but you stay behind. And watch me leave. Somehow, I can’t. I cannot resist your pull like a magnet. So, again, I turn and smile. You reciprocate. “Till we dream again,” I say. And walk away.
I made this poetic note a few months ago. It was deep then, it still is.
Benson Langat is a poet, fiction writer, and freelancer. A dreamer, he realizes a world of possibilities through stories and explores life in poetry. Benie is a dad and lives in Nairobi, Kenya.