Framed by the street,
Street sign – a visual metaphor
The ‘Stop’ Octagon –
It’s red color glaring out.
Instead of stopping you,
– Holds me back,
The lump in my throat,
Stuck, Coerces my silent voice
To stay stuck with no noise.
Footsteps – Encased in pointed stilletos,
Shiny black dead leather,
Stretched, sewn, twisted to perfection.
Hides beautiful paint of toenails,
Sensual arch, the curve of your feet.
The pointed leather ends,
Touch heavily on wooden floors,
Leave marks –
Stating a determined purpose,
Irreversible intent with every step.
Saw you leave –
Falling of fluid grey paint,
Changing from an ever-present falling light.
You paused – To turn back,
Tried to gather the fluid grey paint,
Hold the shadows from dispersing,
Carrying away a past that was forever yours.
Hidden toenails –
Sensual arch, curve of your feet,
Hidden completely –
Expressed through marks left on the floor,
From perfectly dead leather stilettos.
Each mark –
A story of pain and laughter,
Of time together.
No voices came out from either,
Just silent noise –
The voices were stuck,
Behind irretrievable lumps in our throats.
Saw you leave –
Move past the ‘glaring’ red Octagon,
Disappearing forever –
As if the visual metaphor,
Of the framed city street,
Had suddenly consumed you,
Made you part of the frame.
Carrying your receding shadows,
The pain, laughter and memories.
I waited –
For receding shadows to reappear –
The image to come alive again,
Only not so.
I knelt down,
Slowly plucked, scratched and dug through
Picked up the marks,
Left on the floor,
Gathered them in my hand.
These will by stories, my memories –
Pain and laughter, our time together,
Receding shadows now no more.