Monday, February 3, 2014

From September to October by Urooj Rizvi



The ships dock at the port and September
walks in unsteadily, drunk on the idea of winter. 
Your eyes are a little less serious this year and the
house doesn't seem as empty as the people who live in it. The 
sea crashes against the cliff edge and 
we look out to the endlessness of it for a future we aren't worth 
of. Grace no longer consigns itself to us and 
the bed is cold. 
You lie beside me, sometimes, unable to revel in
the callous canvas of my skin, to lose yourself in the dutiful monotony
of skin, to find meaning in 
my worn body. I think of spilling my guts but there are
shadows in your voice and reluctance in the way you walk
out to the balcony. 
October is a dry spell of no heat and little 
else. I take you by the soul and drop my gaze and 
we watch the ships 
set sail, heading to places we'll never see. 
There is comfort in your cardboad embrace and there is
solace in vigilant night. It's enough to drive out the 
emptiness, 
even if it's for a little while.

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