Wandering Harmonies

I

Those ragged people on the sidewalks
silently braving the London chill
reaching desperately for each passerby
trying to thrust some sort of flyer into
every outstretched hand are ignored by
everyone. Except you, who meets their eye
with a sympathetic smile, as you say
“No, thank you,” and, surprised to be addressed
they draw back, nod, startled by the kindness.
It was Tuesday, and you were walking me to class.



II

The watch on your left wrist doesn’t work.
It died months ago, and now it is always
six seconds to midnight on New Years.
What better time, you say?
Its presence has branded your arm, so when you
remove it, it remains as a thickened line of white
against the tan of your skin. Even in the winter,
when sunshine has long been drained from your body,
the faint paleness is there, obstinate, resilient.



III

It was the biggest snowstorm in twenty years, they said.
A very first for some of the children, who ran about
so gingerly, so as not to cause the precious new whiteness to
melt before its time. They shut down the Tube, stranding you
in Hextable and me in Kings Cross. Schools closed for the day,
roads were blocked off. I laughed and laughed, for the snow
amassed two inches at best, and it was gone the next morning.
You still owe me a snowball fight.



IV

I can’t keep a steady enough hand to get the picture right.
The pencil meanders around the page like a lost poet, and then
screeches to a halt, its wayward marks an eyesore against the
fresh white paper in my sketchbook. The pillars in the church
look more like a rickety old staircase, the kind in my
Grandmother’s house, that moans and sighs as you take each step.
I frown, strangle the pencil like a noose, and scratch a huge X into
the page, so hard the point tears through the paper like butter.
I pull the page out of the book, crumple it, leave it in the
dusty corner of the pews. You stifle a laugh, and I stampede
away from you, bruised, insulted. Weeks later, I find that
crumpled drawing in the pocket of your coat.



V

There’s a South African sunset in your smile
and Grecian skies in the whites of your eyes.
Then that blue of your gaze, like Corfu’s seashores.
You shake the sand from Cape Town out of your hair
and let the breeze from Brighton push it out of your face
as the sun swerves through the open window, lighting you up
like a Tuscan star. I peer down at our intertwined hands, and
see the dirt and grime of New York City underneath my fingernails.



VI

If you were planning on me being forgettable,
then, for your sake, I hope I am. Tuck me away like
an old diary, and don’t bother to date the entries. Let it
lie, like all the dead letters whose destination never
welcomed them and that can’t be returned to their sender.
Unread and lost in a dusty bin, soon to become ashes
among other stories that will remain untold, unembraced,
alone. The smell of burnt letters thickens the air so that even
God cannot breathe. You’re a glacier on the sand, and I’m
just a wishful thinker. We dug each other’s graves but, oh, we
made them feel like home. So I’ll think myself sick, as my pen
tries to stall what I know will now take place. Without you,
this city can’t smile, only bear its teeth. Every road I
cross whispers of the loss. Sometimes, peace of mind
isn’t worth the goodbye.



VII

I checked every grocery store in New York, but none
have Jaffa Cakes. I settle for the bland, discounted cookies
moping next to the crackers. Five hours ahead of me already,
I envision you enjoying one, as you check the time on your
watch, grin, and send a single snowflake my way, a fleeting
striking whiteness amidst the grey sidewalks I traverse,
hands in my empty pockets.


VIII

May the Earth always lay its gentle hands upon your head,
and may science and reason steer clear of your timeless heart,
unlike the way it ravaged my own. And, the one task I live to fulfill,
if I dare attempt it – To not let you let me go.



- LAP etc.