Ordinary Person

“September days have the warmth of summer in their briefer hours, but in their lengthening evenings a prophetic breath of autumn.” ― Rowland E. Robinson

All those years ago,

in late September, 

in that coffee shop under a bruised sky,  

as day melted into night, the auburn  

twilight evoking poignant memories,  

the Amaltas fighting to stay yellow,  

you said the harshest words — 

Cold syllables like those 

of a monoku capturing the sharpest winter,  

biting, piercing and bleak,  

and I never recovered. 

The resentment I felt became hate like 

a pubescent boy growing uglier  

with acne dotting his skin,  

and when the anger subsided,  

I felt a deep disappointment,  

a regret as green as jade that 

made me wonder if   

everything beautiful you once told me  

meant nothing to you,  

if you always considered me as someone  

unworthy of compassion and respect. 

I’ve often thought

about reaching out to you, 

hoping to find closure,  

but I’m too proud now to take that step,  

and I wonder if you ever think of me,  

of the days when you confided in me  

when we walked home from college,  

of the moments when we let our 

vulnerabilities show,  

our hearts bleeding crimson,  

held in each other’s palms 

like silver crucifixes, symbols of  

redemption and togetherness. 

Now, I’ve committed my sins and  

have paid dearly for them,  

but it aches because it took what  

you said, treating me

like a starved mongrel,  

an eyesore, to realise how deeply  

I’d fallen in love with you,  

and a part of me thinks you loved  

me too, because spite often stems  

from something wonderful 

like September after spring,  

the phase when all effervescence turns  

rancid. But though the seasons find  

their way back to the beginning again,  

our lives are much more complex,  

every moment weaving another  

element into the narrative.  

Maybe I’m just a passing thought or 

perhaps I don’t exist to you anymore,  

and I know you’re just as proud  

as me, too headstrong to apologise.  

Maybe you no longer  

need me in any shape or form,  

and I’m not even a shadow on the wall,  

but friends abandoning me  

and pain visiting me

like a malevolent gaoler has thrown  

me in the crumbling halls of the past,  

and l look at the broken walls  

to find some meaning  

or something to hold on to.  

Photo by Katie Moum on Unsplash

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