In this room, I start to write.
The sky is stealing the sun.
The last rays of the day come through the windows
that face South.
John told me: āIāll wait for you at the bar,
down by the dock, where I workā.
I leave the house, run to catch the first bus.
The city is getting off work, it feels like too much.
I look out the window,
life goes by in this small town.
What I loved about you, or so I thought,
was your freedom, your pride.
Maybe I never really understood you.
Or maybe I was just a toast,
useless
when thereās nothing left to celebrate.
When you spoke to me, were you really there?
Sitting beside me,
but your mind somewhere else,
like snow in August,
a memory erased.
And yet, every night I rested my head on your chest.
But to be honest, I didnāt feel safe.
A constant sense of alertness took over my body,
like when the sun disappears behind the horizon
and a grey cloud moves in, ready to swallow the city.
I looked into your eyes, and saw emptiness. Iāve always wanted to save
those who get lost in their own minds.
I threw the life vest with all my strength,
but you didnāt want to grab it.
You walked away, there by the dock,
saying: āWeāre just too different.ā
And you left me at the bus stop
with a āSee you at home,
but donāt say anything to the others.ā
You haunted my āwhat ifs,ā
but in the end,
I found my peace.
- Poetry by Greta
