The 'I' of Us

Its funny how just a picture on the cover of a magazine,
moments and memories captured in the elliptical lens,
and I am standing, yet again, lost in the shadows;
the I of us, capturing you, capturing me, turning a
leaf in the corners where distance obscures and
I'm yours and your mine, where the sun does shine,
the scent from bourgainvilleas and honeysuckle,
the soft pad of a rug beaten from the wrought iron balcony,
swirls of glittering dust, falling on sun streaked streets.

The straw of your hat, its battered brim and faded band,
the coarseness of your hands as they rubbed my thigh,
thrilling me, willing me to acquiesce and I would,
not a doubt of, if I should, I was your spinning top,
I wore colours on the hem of my skirt and the contour
of my profile hid in the sweep of lashes, I'd hurt, like soft fragile
petals of a yellow rose, you inked your skin with
as I etched you into the us of I, my ochre tones,
just another bruise to hide on a table where
the glossy sheets became tattered and the gossip
wasn't about you or me, or them or anyone,
just another line cut into the fabric of our entwining.

I can see an image, yet the angle that you sit,
a distortion of your length of leg and the glass
that sweats in the mid morning sun, is just a
likening and in this photo, the clocks don't strike,
marching out the hours and a single cloud doesn't pass,
yet I can feel the darkening the sharpening of your tongue.
Stainless images don't project or show the object,
for these were the ending days, loans of kisses repaid,
fingers marching a tattoo in the knot on the wood,
Untying my scarf letting fragile ends flutter on a breeze,
these were the parting times, slipping narrow feet
into sandals, touching the stem of the hapless rose
and watched as I bled, drops of deep red, you kissed,
I think, perhaps, took a flavour of what we once had.

Now all I see is a picture, transporting to the how of when,
despair at the where and why, the could it, the should it,
the sharp thorn entering my skin now long healed,
just a silver marking in the trajectory of us.
I waved to the lady beating her rug, caught the silk fringe
of a primrose shrug and wound my sequenced self.
That is why I became the only one, the only one, the I of us.





Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 702 times
Written on 2012-11-11 at 12:05

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kath
...and it hurts..and then it heals...and still at times it hurts..

This is a beautiful poem ...

Kath
2012-11-18


shells
I read this earlier, but was called away, had to come back to it. Such a detailed account of a relationship, so sharp, but so poigniant, your final line and title, sheer brilliance.
2012-11-11


countryfog
There is far too much here that is stunning, that is inspired and inspiring, to quote the lines. I am usually sceptical of longer poems, personally subscribing to "less is more," but this reminds me in a way of Bach for example, beginning with a theme and exploring it in all its variations, each of which adds something to make the whole. Your attention to details makes this intensely personal yet somehow also places us in this "picture" rather than merely observing it.
2012-11-11