Cold

It’s awfully cold for this time of the year,
And you show up rather unexpectedly,
Your hands shoved deep in your coat pockets,
Cheeks red and eyes watering.

It’s still the very early hours of the morning and apart from the idling taxi engine, and the crickets,
There is no other sound.
Once I give up, the driver tries to fit my entire life in the little trunk space.

I watch you in my periphery, standing a little distance off, indecision written all over your face.
I want to laugh but I don’t have the strength,
The sleepless night I spent packing,
The milk less tea I chugged before leaving,
Make me want to sink to the floor
But the taxi driver is now staring at me
And I must move.

You continue to rest your eyes,
somewhere on the distant hills
And adamantly refuse to look at me.

So be it.
I get in and close the door with an air of finality that would have put my authoritarian upbringing to shame.
The taxi shifts gears and once it’s safe and before it’s too late,
I resign myself to peeking at you in the rear view mirror.

Your eyes are now fixed on the disappearing taxi,
As if you could stop it with sheer will,
As if it isn’t too late
Hands hanging by your side,
Shoulders slumped
The sun on its way up in the sky right behind you.

I want you to suffer, I think,
Feel so cold, you’ll never be warm again,
But my heart gives up and a sob escapes from my mouth before I hastily cover it up with a cough.

---

I’m reading The Secret History right now and this is definitely inspired by the aesthetic of the book.

A poem in two parts.

Featured Image by Jack Cross