The Pen is Dry
Just like my sad and aching mind
The cafe is busy,
Filled to its brim,
With the deep scent of coffee beans and pastries,
Constant bustle and conversation.
Groups gather and converse, chatting happily and well.
From the back,
There is a roar of laughter, booming and resonant,
A chorus of comrades and close friends.
My table is the only lonesome one,
Its square shape and sharp corners,
Do not soothe my soul, nor numb my pain.
Instead, it makes absence more aware and prevalent.
I sip my coffee, it burns my tongue and lips.
A drop falls upon my shirt, I swipe it away,
But there will be a stain.
I am trying to write, but my pen does not budge,
The window seat was a bad idea,
It entices the eyes and mind, makes them wander,
With ideas dashing out the door, onto the street.
A couple, young and spritely,
Stand up from their chairs, ready to leave,
He helps her with her coat,
She pecks him on the cheek.
I look away.
I hear them walk out the door.
It is starting to rain, droplets tap lightfingered at the window,
The pathways will soon shine with the glow of light.
I see them, in my head,
They are running in the heavy rain,
Her hair is wet, it mattes against her soft cheeks and face,
He holds her hand, leading her home,
Where he whispers they will be warm, they will be safe,
In his living room, there is a fire,
Singing in their hearts, with the passion of a soulful lyre.
I see his face. It is my own.
I tell her, that she is the one,
Without her coat…
She turns and runs.
I scramble to jot down my thoughts, to capture the feelings I have felt,
But my pen only scrapes the page, not a word written and it is dry,
Just like my sad and aching mind.
My muse left long ago, my music plays too much of the time.
I head out.
It is a long way home,
I hear a siren, Its piercing whine,
And I realise, begrudgingly, that I am far from fine.
Read more from Brian Culley
~ And Poetry After Dark
