When I left
And waved goodbye to
Friends, I hated that.
I was helplessly scared.
The streets by then
Looked drunken with regret,
Quietly reminding me of
The chorus from "Atmosphere".
Sentimental drizzles smelled
Like vodka, I reeked
Of vodka tears.
I thought of myself a month ago--
So safe and protected
In a milky pupa, easily
Carefree, I played the part
Of a Blanche DuBois.
But no, not any longer.
Something inside has cracked,
I laughed and said
"Finally." And was genuinely
Glad, weening myself of
Self-pity. I am starting
To Breathe.
Realising the Loss, the
Hurt, and the pen
In my hand, I wished to stay,
To smile, to embrace
--But it was too late.
I, was too late.
"I cannot help anybody,"
Patheticlly, but so very 'me',
My line of exit, another
Irony.
No need to remember, still,
I'll move on, again
On my own.
No need, no TIME to remember
at all, my yearning for
Love, as for Loniness,
My Fear-- for friends,
For the End,
For the Beginning,
As for Letting go.