The Story of Us
We depart. The two of us.
We stood there. Knowing that we knew. And knowing that we would never look.
Something in us changes, as we move.
There are two divides we need to cross. The first one, for me, is you, and for you, me.
But the other divide is much the harder. Its us.
I need to free me from me and you need to free yourself from you.
Words. Empty. Millions of them. Flying into the wind. It carries them when they emerge from the being of a person, and guides them softly, gently through each day. When the being can no longer allow them to escape, the wind sheds these shadows softly into our laps. We pick them up and rub them against our cheeks like our childhood flannel comforters. Feeling. Remembering.
He stops talking. He’s moving now.
She pretends to laugh at something her friend says.
He walks towards the exit, near where she stands, slowly, giving himself time to think. Giving her time to react.
She feels him watching her. He’s trying hard not to look and she feels it. She knows she should turn around and look back. Let one window fall. But she doesn’t. She wants to. But she doesn’t.
He wants her to look. Look at me. Feel me. Know that this is the last time I will be passing you. Know. Why does it not tantalize her, that knowledge, the way it does him?
She tries to fight back the slow storm that is making her want to run to him. She closes her eyes briefly and wonders why she wants him to approach her first. Why? She wonders. There is only silence.
He wants to go to her. To tap her shoulder and to watch her turn. To see those colours cascading into each other in the dance of a waterfall. He wonders why he can’t. Why, he wonders, does he wait for her to look at him? Why? He wonders.
A man and a woman. They both look for signs.
Somewhere, a foghorn is heard in the distance. The ships are leaving. There are no goodbyes.
A man and a woman. Two ends of a shore. No meeting places.
How do you depart? Do you look back and wave goodbye? Do you close your eyes against the surge of pain and refuse to acknowledge that which you are leaving behind? Do you smile and think of tommorow? And who stops? Who clenches the moment tightly in his fist and crumples it? Who returns?
Lives dissolve. Tomorrow. She doesn’t really know what it means yet. Tomorrow. But she knows it’s there. For him too. It holds them both in a cradle of knotted fingers, and a strange optimism arising out of its uncertainity, its blurry outlines.
Nostalgia frays the edges of the sun as it dips into the sea. Soft and wavy. The water shivers.
We know. Oh, we know. We are the two who have moved time. No one backtracks into history. We pulled the sword out of the stone. None of us will face ourselves in each other. There is a part of us, that we don’t want back.
But there is still the forhorn. It blows in the distance. Finds its way through layers of sunsets and the salty ocean air to come to us. How many paths are there in this world? And how many of them lead to the same place?
We stood there. Knowing that we knew. And knowing that we would never look.
Something in us changes, as we move.
There are two divides we need to cross. The first one, for me, is you, and for you, me.
But the other divide is much the harder. Its us.
I need to free me from me and you need to free yourself from you.
Words. Empty. Millions of them. Flying into the wind. It carries them when they emerge from the being of a person, and guides them softly, gently through each day. When the being can no longer allow them to escape, the wind sheds these shadows softly into our laps. We pick them up and rub them against our cheeks like our childhood flannel comforters. Feeling. Remembering.
He stops talking. He’s moving now.
She pretends to laugh at something her friend says.
He walks towards the exit, near where she stands, slowly, giving himself time to think. Giving her time to react.
She feels him watching her. He’s trying hard not to look and she feels it. She knows she should turn around and look back. Let one window fall. But she doesn’t. She wants to. But she doesn’t.
He wants her to look. Look at me. Feel me. Know that this is the last time I will be passing you. Know. Why does it not tantalize her, that knowledge, the way it does him?
She tries to fight back the slow storm that is making her want to run to him. She closes her eyes briefly and wonders why she wants him to approach her first. Why? She wonders. There is only silence.
He wants to go to her. To tap her shoulder and to watch her turn. To see those colours cascading into each other in the dance of a waterfall. He wonders why he can’t. Why, he wonders, does he wait for her to look at him? Why? He wonders.
A man and a woman. They both look for signs.
Somewhere, a foghorn is heard in the distance. The ships are leaving. There are no goodbyes.
A man and a woman. Two ends of a shore. No meeting places.
How do you depart? Do you look back and wave goodbye? Do you close your eyes against the surge of pain and refuse to acknowledge that which you are leaving behind? Do you smile and think of tommorow? And who stops? Who clenches the moment tightly in his fist and crumples it? Who returns?
Lives dissolve. Tomorrow. She doesn’t really know what it means yet. Tomorrow. But she knows it’s there. For him too. It holds them both in a cradle of knotted fingers, and a strange optimism arising out of its uncertainity, its blurry outlines.
Nostalgia frays the edges of the sun as it dips into the sea. Soft and wavy. The water shivers.
We know. Oh, we know. We are the two who have moved time. No one backtracks into history. We pulled the sword out of the stone. None of us will face ourselves in each other. There is a part of us, that we don’t want back.
But there is still the forhorn. It blows in the distance. Finds its way through layers of sunsets and the salty ocean air to come to us. How many paths are there in this world? And how many of them lead to the same place?
posted by Shekure Darashikoh at 1:30 PM
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