Those wrinkles hiding at the corners of your eyes,
Though they remind me of your age,
Remind me of the time I saw you first
And your smile that brought about their visibility.
Your hair wasn’t as white as it is now—
It was silver then,
How you reminded me of Christmas.
You still do.
My dear, old friend,
Do you realize that our time is almost up?
Your time is my time, even if I’m ages behind.
You know me, you’ve taught me,
Made me smile, gave me comfort—
Even in silence.
And we’ve translated volumes from stillness that knew no emptiness.
I still do.
Even if you no longer can.
No connection with the poem above, but since I’ve done this with some of my posts, I’ve decided to include once more the song I listened to while writing the poem:
Don’t Leave Me Now by Roger Hodgson (Supertramp)
I remember silence–it was all I could ever remember, for it was the one thing I could never forget. It surfaced from the past and continued to skim over the present. Silence was the only thing that came in, and it was the only thing that went out, like an inhale and an exhale–one that I didn’t want to take. I returned only what I could take in, as did those around me–a cycle that created a void of unsaid words, neglected and scattered across a barren desert, hidden and covered by dry sand.
I can’t remember when I spoke last, or when I heard words from another. What are words? They float for me, out and away, like jellyfishes on a vast ocean. And I dutifully pick them up, carefully, tenderly, one by one, for I can touch them, see them, feel them…but never hear or speak them. They are written…jellyfishes on a white vast ocean, lined with waves. I create them, produce them, manufacture them in parts for them to be weaved together to form a whole.
I still remember silence. But I also remember words, neatly crammed on a page, spilling over the margins, pouring out as if screaming at me to move the pen faster. They control me, don’t they? I hold the pen, but the words I cannot hear or speak hold me. I hold the pen and no one can tell me what to write or how to go about it, but these words can. And they continue to.