It's a crowded room, but all I
see is summer rain on cobblestones, and through
a rain-stained lens, something points my vision
Like the headlights of two cars
behind red lights at a midnight
intersection, our eyes meet,
a flash of recognition, fading to black--
my heart stops.
I am soaking from the rain
and you look like shelter, with
your eyes a blazing fireplace,
but my mother taught me well to
stay away from strangers.
Strangers that were not always so,
but I don't know you anymore. Do I?
Perhaps I know you from another life--
another story written and
yet now lies forgotten on
the shelf: the bonfire I once saw in you
has been extinguished by the elements,
until it is simply an ember
with the faint memory
of more glorious days.
Those were the days I spent
under your grasp. I was your little
crushed beneath your grasp,
which I called an embrace,
not realizing that just because
someone feels like home,
doesn't mean they are,
and that just because someone says
they love you, doesn't mean they do.
Yet here I am standing here
in front of you, the way I did
two years ago on the rain-slick cobblestones
in the twilight of late June, feeling my heart
twitter as the dying bird inside me
wishes to sing for you once more.
But that little songbird will soon be
gone, and I dare you to ask me
to sing for you again,
because this time you will be
met by the roar of a lioness,
who will not be made small again.
The headlights flash, but I am not
blinded anymore. You drive away
and I let you go, because you are nothing
but a stranger, and I'm in the fast lane to
love and joy and happiness,
and I know I can never find you there.