I saw her today

in the window of the bookshop

on Parker Avenue; not the actual her,

but her picture. Her picture 

on the back of her book.

Her book, that she had been writing

when I loved her, when we lived together,

twenty years ago, at least. 

She finally did it, I thought, stopping

to peer in the window, fighting the urge

to just go inside and snatch up a copy,

partly to flip through the pages to see

if I was in it, however veiled; and partly

just to stare at the picture of her, an old picture

I could tell even from outside - 

I ought to know, I had taken it

decades ago on Martha's Vineyard.

She is wearing a cream-colored cable-knit

turtleneck, and the grey sea and sky

are behind her. It was a windy day, but

some miracle of photography had captured her

when the wind had left her hair in place,

so she looked stunning - grey eyes, 

windburned cheeks, little lines at the edges of the mouth.

At her feet, I remember though of course it is not

in the author jacket photo, is a bucket of oysters

we had dug that morning, and would eat raw only

some few minutes after this picture was taken.

That was the picture she had used, to show herself

to the world, to sell her book.

What does that say? There is probably some

commentary to be made upon the difficulties

and sexism faced by aging females in all lines of work,

and I am sympathetic, really I am. None

of my books even have my picture on them. 

But the only thing that makes any sense to me,

looking at her ensquared in the bottom left-hand corner

of the hardback edition of the domestic drama

that was always a part of the real one we lived,

I cannot help but remember that after I took the picture

and our son Kevin came bounding up from the beach

carrying a whip of kelp ten feet long,

she had said to me, It is never going to end, 

and foolishly I thought she had meant us.

I saw him from across the room

Our fate was knit on lover's loom

A stolen kiss

Bred certain bliss

With breathless whispers passion grew

I saw him today in his face 

I saw him in his words 

I saw him in today in the wrinkles on his forehead 

I saw him in my mind 

I saw him in the shadows on the wall

I saw him in my bed 

I saw you 

but I was confused because I saw him 

I saw her in your eyes 

I saw her in the way you touched me 

I saw her in the shakiness of your voice 

were both injected with the evils of this world 

I saw her in the way you hang around 

every word I say like it's my last 

I saw her in the night 

when your sleeping by my side

your waking up shaking 

your hand rests so gently on my chest 

making sure I am still beating 

the flashbacks dig through your soul 

the tears pelt from your eyes 

the pain surges like venomn 

and wraps around our necks 

pushing us deeper in the past 

gulping for air 

I saw him 

and her 

in 

a scrapbook 

fragile 

and 

smeared 

with 

ink 

inscribed 

with 

the bleeding 

fabrication 

of 

loose 

leaf 

paper 

tied 

with 

the 

bow 

of 

the 

words 

all 

good 

things 

must 

end 

two wrinkled 

hands 

with 

lines 

of 

love 

an 

eldery

couple 

laid 

side 

by 

side 

walked 

and

trembled 

in 

the 

footsteps 

of 

each 

other 

I saw their story 

just by watching 

the film 

as I flipped 

through 

each 

page 

of 

the scrapbook 

I saw him today.

It was painful;

It felt like my heart

Was being ripped in two,

One part with me,

One part with him.

We used to be close,

So, so close,

But now we've drifted

A million miles apart.

We are the same flesh

And blood, and here 

We are, mortal enemies.

I wonder,

Whose fault was it?

I saw her today

An ephemeral vision

From a distant past

Beauty haunting

Laughter enticing

But never masking the

Memories

So painful

And yet so sweet

I longed to go to her

To reconnect

To become all that we

Once were

But when she looked

At me

All I saw in her eyes

Was the hurt

I had caused

So long ago

And I turned away

Broken again

#love #heartbreak #relationships #poetry #challenge

I saw him today

In their favourite café 

He's talking with someone 

A girl who is blonde

Then

I saw her

He didn't 

She entered the café 

I knew it's time for revelation

It's the old versus the new 

"Do you still love her?" the lady asked 

I saw him looked at "her"

In his hesitation 

We found the answer. 

I saw her today, where I normally do, three rows down; but only glimpses, when she's standing and looking back, amidst the crowd.

She's always smiling. That glint in her eyes brings me to a place I haven't been in a while. It's somewhere I can never go back to. It's pain and pleasure contorted into something perverted.

She's always smiling. But when she's not, her eyes, light gray—lustering in shades of blue—reach out to ensnare my own. I can't turn away, but I don't want to. If only I could be discreet, if only I was invisible, but I'm not, and I'm caught every time. I'm always a split-second too late.

She knows.

She knows I'm here. I need to know she knows.

I'm here every week, watching my team battle it out on the oval. Tackling, crashing, leaping, pummeling to the ground. Flying. Soaring, like birds of prey. I used to come for the wins, but now I come for her.

She knows of me, but she doesn't know me. She's probably disgusted. I'm ugly, twisted, full of guile, duplicitous. I missed out on the lottery—my hand is unimpressive, unlike hers, a royal flush. Men adore her. She only need but smile. I, on the other hand, have to grovel, on my knees. It's unfair, it's shit, but that's life. Deal with it. Have some cement and toughen the fuck up!

One day, I'd emerge from my chrysalis, into a world where you won't be fucked over for your lousy hand. Where the only things that matter are what really matter: respect, trust, and love for your fellow man or woman.

One day, she'll see me, for more than I appear.

She'll love me.

She'll even worship the ground I walk, like the lowly caterpillar paying homage to the butterfly.

Until then, I'll love her from afar, secretly, in plain sight.

I saw her today. 

There she is, tending the flowers in her shop. With a radiant smile, she greets the people passing by. Kids run and almost bump into her. She scolds them with a cheery smile and the kids apologizes. I can feel my heart beating loudly every time she smiles. I gulp and blushes madly. Here I am, sipping coffee from a café across the street, ogling at the woman I love.

But then, my face fell when I remembered something. Frowning, I look at the notebook I have in hand and sigh. 

"1 minute," I mutter under my breath. 

Summoning all of my strength, I decided to walk towards her. 

"Oh, I always see you here!" The woman chirps to me, "Are you looking flowers for your girlfriend?" My heart quickens it beat, words faltering me as I can't believe I'm finally talking to her. What's more, I can't focus especially if her voice is sweet as a candy.

I shrug but still keep my friendly smile, "Not really, I just came here to tell you I love you," I turn my back, but not before sparing her one last glance, "It was nice knowing you, hope you have a peaceful death," I tell her bitterly. I can feel my whole world crashing down. I hate this. 

With that, I walk away and the woman is surely dumbfounded. I check my watch. 

"10..." 

"Hey, I don't even know who you are!" She yells at me. She's possibly blushing and twirling her brown locks. I squeeze my eyes and begin the countdown in my head. 

"5..." 

"I think you're also handsome, we should get some coffee sometime!" I wave my hand in response. Oh how I wish I could run to you and prevent your death, but I can't. My hands tremble in anger and I ruffle my black hair to compose myself. 

"3..." 

I turn back to her, tears in my eyes and say, "Yeah, that'd be cool. How about tomorrow?" 

"Yeah!" 

"1..." 

What a liar I am. 

At once, the woman falls flat to the pavement. The bouquet in her hand comes rolling in her hand and people nearby gasp. I stop, my hands still shaking and my heart aching.

"Jean Lockhart, died of a heart attack," I mutter bitterly before signing into my notebook. I disappear from the scene to move on to my next target. I keep my loneliness and anguish buried in my heart. I have to perform my duty. 

Being the god of death is never fun especially if you fell in love with someone. 

I saw him today

Hands caressing a bouquet

And love—his eyes says

His look on me strays,

Our heartbeats in disarray

And theirs—in array.