Your heart sits in my life like a wet, big, unwanted tea bag
Seeping into the ivory wallpaper by my bedside
And turning the bed sheets we have shared for many years
Into a shade of old memories made by the house that we once owned
The one in the cul de sac, where roses crept through the lawn
And where Sahar was born.
I remember when you first graced my life
With your warm eyes and hands that cracked of wisdom and life
And hair that kissed your eyelashes.
I remember the walls we painted together, a shade of green you said
The kind of green that was born in the first ray of sunrise
I wanted those walls ivory, pure, like Sahar.
As seasons eat the years away, the house grew old
Like the love you had for me, and the love I had for you
And your comforting silhouette that marked so much of my life
And the space in which I grew and became so much of you
And yet so far from you. You knew this and yet, you said nothing,
Even when Sahar ran through the creeping roses, the lawn so green
I really didn’t understand why a part of me
Needed to be replaced with a gauge so deep that even blood
Could not over spill and warm its opening, and why the car
That hit her and the man that drove it to touch her small frame
Was only given a number of years to realise that what he had destroyed
Was more than just the beauty that was at the end of
My hearts umbilical chord.
He had destroyed the one thing that held, with a lightness
Of innocence and tenderness, the crumbling walls of our home
Which could no longer stand tall with our fading love.
He had wiped away our everything and everything that could keep
And so, a year on, with Sahar gone
I turn around and look at you, your eyes closed, breathing gently
By my side, dreaming of a once upon a time when we did not know
Anything but each other and what we could have for the rest of
Your face is so much like Sahar’s.
But, like the tea bag that sits growing
Cold on our kitchen worktop, my heart for you is dry and dry is
This relationship, the walls in which it has grown and dissolved
And dry is the air outside which I will inhale as I drag the bag with
My few belongings and walk away from the home, the dream that was once
So much of yours as mine and head towards a new beginning in a place
Where roses stay in pots and walls are blank and the garden is empty
Like a complete an utter metaphor of everything that has led to what I am now
A heavy lump of nothingness held in a skin so thin that like you
My old tea bag, I will seep at every moment of loss until my last days.
© 2014 Shroomantics ~ Rahima Begum