That was the other speaking, not me,
not the one you know.
The one you know would never dare
look you in the eye,
tell you unpleasant home truths,
ruffle peacock feathers.
Why? For fear of this—
the slamming door.
In the sunset of your leaving,
even the cherry blossom drips scarlet,
and the sky bleeds with my heart,
black swallows dart,
filling the hollows
with their strident laughter.
Hands and heart tied to you,
I follow, a limping bird,
but would I take the right path,
would I even know it,
had I the choice?
Bright night-velvet fades to grey,
I cringe from the uncompromising light
that floods the empty white space
with cold tomorrows.
Jane Dougherty Writes 