The Old Woman Who Sits Across from Me.

Her eyes, under which her skin sags noticeably like a dried river, gaze far off into distance. When they dwell on anything earthly, they betray a childlike curiosity in them – out of place with the fragile and old frame. An even nose somewhat flattened in the middle, and a jaw which gives the impression of being tightly shut. When she does speak, it is with a voice feebler than she might have years ago. Wrinkles grace her forehead just below where the red halts. She looks accustomed to the tedium of being a housewife, though her demeanor betrays no pride. The old husband sits with her, and something tells me that they’ve been together long, though they seem to belong to different communities. She looks unaccustomed to traveling, as it should be, as she’s guided by the husband as the deboarding station approaches. She seeks support from him, and the metallic poles, and escapes into the humid environment outside.

Soliloquy.

This is a conscious observation. People are leaving. In numbers more than ever. They escape from my life into oblivion, merging into the faceless streams of the daylife. They leave, without leaving trace. The disappointment has thrust itself into consciousness, and now it sits as the elephant in the room. No, it isn’t a heartache. This heart never vied for so much attention. But the elephant is wrung out into a vague numbness: not the maudlin tragic but a blighted despondence nonetheless. Not lonely – for somehow I have adapted – but a poignant reflection, a emotion of distance, which ponders upon questions – why promises were made and forgotten. Was a love, a companionship ever there. Were things rounding back to the same days again, when you had no one to tell them that you loved them, and no one to tell you. There are few answers set in stone. They are printed and effaced with the ebb and flow of these musings. So, people are leaving. There is no motivation to call out most of them. There are attempts, oft repeated, to confront the remaining few. All in all, there is no purpose in this soliloquy. A deep breath, a sigh, spells the end of it.

Speak.

What do you have
to say to me?
Don’t you sigh
when you look across
these barren conversations
which wither everytime I look at them
Do you see them?
Do you think of them,
with their stops and empty silences?
Have you nothing to say to me?
Even silence will do, if it speaks.

She and You.

She was, behold ye, life itself!
Her enchanting eyes, were mesmerizing
as they looked at a random nothing
But when they did look at you
which they didn’t
you knew, oh you knew
beneath the veneer
what distance lay
how unattainable we both were.