The Dust Did Roar

When you walked out the door that night,
Did you take a part of me with you?

Maybe you planted it in the backyard,
Forgetting it needs light to grow.

Did you put it on your mantle piece
to show off to all your friends?

Perhaps you placed it in the back of the cupboard,
Behind the clothes you meant to give to charity?

You could be carrying it in your pocket,
Squeezing it when you need a pick me up. 

Or did you left it in your wallet?
Next to the library card and half-finished loyalty card. 

Would it be worse, I wonder?
If you left it behind on my step,
Like nothing had changed.

I'll never know.

I can't feel it much anymore.

Gone sometime between
The warm tenderness of your touch
and you saying you felt sick at the sight of me. 

Maybe it's still here,
a piece of clay with your fingerprints.

I'm hoping it weathers,
Worn by the wind and the rain.

Then I'll be free of you.

But not today.

I was busy working on another piece that I haven’t finished yet when I came across this older one.

It obviously came from a very dark place, and I can’t say that I entirely agree with it, but I realized it did overlap with some of the themes of what I’m currently writing.

So I decided to publish it. Guess this is part one of a two-parter.

I’ll elaborate more in my next post, but what really stood out to me when rereading this poem was how we can trick ourselves into believing that we are more important than we actually are.

Not everyone can, or should, remember us.

We can’t always decide who cares about us, but we can decide who we care about.