Coralline
November 26th 2009 10:16
Coralline, I was sure that when I returned home,
It was you that I’d seen, huddled and unclean and hunched in the alley,
Some smelly retreat, the muttering beat of your heart that palpitated and wheezed,
Some scene, seeing you there, windswept hair, watching your pricked vein and face pleased.
You looked so desperate, do disparate, so different to when we played together,
The weather on your face, the same as the question; whether or not you would live to the morning.
And mourning you, like you’d gone already I remembered you in a yellow dress on the playground in the shade, in the dying days and the youthful way that you laughed and were the last to stay.
We had a rule to adhere to, you and me, we both had been told and stayed out late, later than those who had to wait, every night to be called, but we, we stayed out until the streetlights
Lit up the path and rushed and laughed, all the way to our respective homes.
What is different, what changed? Why am I okay and you estranged? Why are you dying in the dying streets, under those street lamps and palpating retreats?
In your teens you smoked and so did I and in your youth drank and so did I and in time you tried other things and partied and so did I. And perhaps I did other things, and read and wrote and spoke about the world situation with other folks, maybe you did not. And maybe I worked and loved and was loved and worked and maybe you did not. And maybe the ones I loved stayed alive and well and maybe those of yours whom you loved did not. Who knows? The ways things go. Maybe you did those things to escape and me to recreate, to trial and leave, yours the last reprieve of a life that was bound to tangle.
From the angle I saw you, the devastating torture, was as though an angel sat above you and deplored you...
But Coralline in that quiet dying scene, I can know it; happened or not, you died in that alley way next to the decaying parking lot. And I carried on.
It was you that I’d seen, huddled and unclean and hunched in the alley,
Some smelly retreat, the muttering beat of your heart that palpitated and wheezed,
Some scene, seeing you there, windswept hair, watching your pricked vein and face pleased.
You looked so desperate, do disparate, so different to when we played together,
The weather on your face, the same as the question; whether or not you would live to the morning.
And mourning you, like you’d gone already I remembered you in a yellow dress on the playground in the shade, in the dying days and the youthful way that you laughed and were the last to stay.
We had a rule to adhere to, you and me, we both had been told and stayed out late, later than those who had to wait, every night to be called, but we, we stayed out until the streetlights
Lit up the path and rushed and laughed, all the way to our respective homes.
What is different, what changed? Why am I okay and you estranged? Why are you dying in the dying streets, under those street lamps and palpating retreats?
In your teens you smoked and so did I and in your youth drank and so did I and in time you tried other things and partied and so did I. And perhaps I did other things, and read and wrote and spoke about the world situation with other folks, maybe you did not. And maybe I worked and loved and was loved and worked and maybe you did not. And maybe the ones I loved stayed alive and well and maybe those of yours whom you loved did not. Who knows? The ways things go. Maybe you did those things to escape and me to recreate, to trial and leave, yours the last reprieve of a life that was bound to tangle.
From the angle I saw you, the devastating torture, was as though an angel sat above you and deplored you...
But Coralline in that quiet dying scene, I can know it; happened or not, you died in that alley way next to the decaying parking lot. And I carried on.
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