Almost

I knew you long ago –
before this merciless stage,
this ceaseless come-and-go.
I knew you in the faithful age
when you were open to listening,
and we were almost alone.

It was in that time
that I held you in my arms
in the light of an almost-forever: eternity nothing more
than the everlasting backdrop to our indefatigable endeavour.

And you peered out from my embrace and saw the world
and all its many things untested:
nevertheless, you turned back to me,
and, contentedly, you rested.

Then the world turned and woke up on its side
to a new day, and a new mind
of thoughtlessness and solitude.
You became an island,
and though I was a sea imbued
with all that we’d had,
I could not touch you:
you wanted to be sad.
You wanted to be alone and in the dark,
to become the one who would eagerly embark
on a thousand here-and-nows
but found that – in your starting – you stopped.

You think you stand upright and alone
not realising that you have fallen, prone,
from trying to move without taking a step
and trying to weep without showing you’ve wept.
If this, without me, is all life consists
I’d like just to remind you:

I still exist.