I wrote a poem a couple of weekends back. It's a pretty odd poem, and every time I read it, I think: - yes, new for me, but very odd. I wrote it in the middle of the night after Yom Kippur. The disembodied sensation induced by neither eating nor drinking for 26 hours lingered in my mind.
At the same time, during the day - while I was out at synagogue with my dad - I'd left Emily at home. I didn't realise she was getting sick from not drinking enough water or caffeine, and felt half like I'd abandoned her. And I'd also intended to write a blog about our walks on the Isle of Wight for some time. I still want to write one or two on that - something pretty special happened there - although unlike the poem to follow, in a comic rather than tragic vein. Somehow all this hazily mingled together to produce something not entirely about any of that.
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The sea is green because I want to kiss you.
She takes it out on me physically.
Her ceaseless waves casually erase your feet
After mine were split to ocean from air.
Split by your lips' quiver, at sea's say
How I no more am your amour than a dream.
Touch me: I do not shimmer like water
Though my feet are fled beneath shoreline forever.
And when I clutch your hands, mine seem no less wind
Than sand fumbling at a romance that never was.
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