Walk Away

No-one would blame you for walking away.

I say that to myself. I say it to you. I say it to both of us.

Walking away would not only be easier, it would be more sensible, a smoother road, a less bumpy ride, a more predictable journey back.

But since when have I ever done what is easier?

Why, I’d place rocks in my path just to make the ride more exciting were there none there to begin with. I have to feel the pain to make the pleasure real. It was always thus, the heavens said so since I was a mere twinkle in an eye.

No-one would blame you.

Who knows, it could all have been a dream. There is no photographic proof, no irrefutable evidence, nothing that will last or linger. There is only the memory of heels on cobblestones and one hand held in another. There is only a mind’s snapshot of a ghastly green pub with its air heavy laden with inevitability, the flash of a mutual glance of understanding and the gentle inexorable ness of a first kiss.

The perfume that rubbed from my neck onto your shirt will now have been washed away. The champagne bottle is tomorrow’s recycled green glass, nothing more. My hair is brushed and sleek; your hands no longer entangled in its wildness. The sheets are freshly laundered, no doubt, already soiled by another tainted love, the terrace seats vacated, the words lost on the air.

There is a storm brewing here; I see it from the attic window. The clouds are heavy and blue with woe. The air is cold and stark. The flowers’ petals shrink back into themselves.

But I think this is not pathetic fallacy, as one would suppose, for the storm in my heart may already be over. Clearing up the wreckage is the task which faces me now.