Transatlanticism

I didn’t believe that you had actually gone away

Until I realized that you were not only another comforting presence around the house

But you were also the faint smell of musk that was always around

And you were the feel of a welcome when I came back late

You were the touch of warmth on nights with thunderous clouds,

And you were the phantom kiss that kept nightmares at bay.

That disc in the player is not mine. It’s from the time when you lent me your favourite albums

And I said I loved them all, but I might have lied about some, just to be kind.

So you discussed the words and I nodded through it all, but you saw through it all,

And it was our perfect little secret because you didn’t care that I didn’t care

Listen to those chords that echo the frenetic undercurrent of eddying thoughts in my head

Listen to the pounding beat that feels like the blood rushing far too fast in my veins

Feel the riffs wash over like a tidal wave of trembling emotion that leaves you frail and naked

Vulnerably anticipatory of the next verse – next track – the next day.

The next day where I wake up to see no crumpled sheets or hear any rhythmic breathing or taste the envelope of overpowering peace

The next morning where all cutlery must now be laid out for just one

The next afternoon where I shall have no one on speed-dial for the occasional rant

The next evening where a shot of vodka will not be for pleasure

And the next night, where I shall have to re-learn to ward off bad dreams on my own.

And the day after that, and the track after this, which you always liked better than all the others.

So I sit amidst our emotional debris with your leftover tuneage wafting from the side

I shall learn to stand and walk on my feet again,

And try to love the songs you did just so we can have something to talk about

The Next Time.