The blue whispers of yesteryear

You look at me with the same blue eyes of over twenty five years ago, has it been that long? Age has made you look healthy, fuller, time has settled your soul I see. Tell me, if you will, how is it that misfits find each other in the crowds of screaming faces? Yet we did. We were not the broken, not the unfixable, our souls were intact only our spirits were torn from the root. I told you once, not to worry, you were gonna be fine, but you couldn’t hear me above your black nameless trainers with dirty white broken laces and faded second hand blazer that hung from your underfed frame. You had to drown first, we both had to, suffocation was the only way we could discover our own inner strength. We spent so many seconds, so many minutes, so many hours queueing at the dragons door scrambling for a signature to add to the ones we had just ourselves scribbled across those green sheets of paper that tied us to our school days. We didn’t always talk, not with words, sometimes our eyes said all that words could not. You told me, he loves me, I knew that, he had done since the first year at primary school, or perhaps before, perhaps it started that day as I walked along my road playing dollies an an empty street and I became the target for his kisses, rudimental exchanges of power as I pushed him away still disgusted by the very idea of boys. He believed I was his property and everyone knew that. Yet I never was, I would always be the one he never caught. It was love I saw in your eyes then, two souls speaking above the din of reality but we both had our rules of loyalty, isn’t that what made us so different? Broken and yet still we put others before ourselves, still we lived by our own codes refusing to be pulled into their pit of despair. You look good, age wears well on your skin, no longer an underfed frame, muscles now where once was skin and bone, smiles where once was a lad finding his way through knife laced streets of neglect.. Yet still, deep in those eyes of yours I find something, hidden, waiting to be told, to be said. And the moment is gone, the pendulum swings as we pass in the street, only our souls remembering.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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