When I sit softly, and often on nights like this

When I sit softly and often on nights like this, I lean forward into the days of tunnelled frost skies and cedar wood and hurried sifting smoke. I think of before I knew you and your walk was still an echo in the patterns of my heel. And your silhouette passed through my skin like a flurry of birds’ wings blushing and breaking on the air. And the mist from my small mouth rolling on the colder wind was swallowed by you many nights afterward. Then the autumn smell of openness and stretches of pine and a brief second of dusk settled secretly on me. I did not notice until the wood grew silent and white and the windows of my room grave and mute. Then the smallest shift of your lip sent our days tumbling upon me to rest timeless and forever between the seasons.

That was many years ago. That was before the revolution. My body is now broken. There are gaping holes where my eyes have been. My hair is musty and my soul is old. I sleep lightly in old libraries. My dreams are violent; pounding with every story pouring off the rustic shelves. I no longer listen to music. It hollowed me out until you could see the stars through my skin. When life is slow, I map the constellations through my spine. There are many and they continue to grow. If I passed you on the streets now, you would not know me. You would say, yes thank you, no, no, I have no money to give. I would try to tell you of your tears and the arc of your legs and the hollow of your neck and the way you danced through the rooms without ever moving.

And how your body fell away from mine like the heavy sound of history.

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When I sit softly, and often on nights like this by 


For love, and for history.

First prize winner at my College’s annual Poetry Contest
Winter 2010

Published in The Locus,
Fall 2009

Comments

  • S .
    S .about 5 years ago

    love this piece.. great work

  • Thanks so much! I really appreciate it!

    – A. Blick

  • Erika .
    Erika .almost 5 years ago

    Wow… I seriously think you’re such a good writer. This is genius. Love the descriptions and the wording…

  • Many thanks once again! This is my favourite piece from what I’ve written and I’m so glad that I’ve been able to reach others with it.

    – A. Blick

  • silvercircles
    silvercirclesalmost 5 years ago

    The perfect illustration of loss! Written so beautifully . . . A definite favorite!

  • silvercircles
    silvercirclesalmost 5 years ago

    PS- What is the Locus?

  • Thank you!! The Locus is a literary journal that features mostly poetry and prose, and some photography :)

    – A. Blick

  • bowlofstars
    bowlofstarsalmost 5 years ago

    Such an expressive piece. A feast for the senses!

  • Teacup
    Teacupover 4 years ago

    I fell into this piece – captivated by the beauty of finding that “someone”, then to be taken on the journey of loss… powerful and beautiful. x
    Congrats on the poetry award… xx

  • You are so kind! Thank you very much for your congratulations and comment. I’m happy at least knowing that through loss, there is the potential for renewal in creation and inspiration :)

    – A. Blick

  • SashaC
    SashaCover 4 years ago

    Then the smallest shift of your lip sent our days tumbling upon me to rest timeless and forever between the seasons.
    I love this line.
    (Congratulations, by the way :P)

  • Thank you! It was so exciting! :) They tried to get me to read it out loud. “Tried” being the opportune word… haha

    – A. Blick

  • Karen01
    Karen01over 4 years ago

    I no longer listen to music. It hollowed me out until you could see the stars through my skin. When life is slow, I map the constellations through my spine. There are many and they continue to grow…

    just gorgeous imagery…

  • I’m so glad you think so…they’re actually secretly some of my favourite lines I’ve written :)

    – A. Blick

  • Blake Steele
    Blake Steeleabout 4 years ago

    To be so sensitive, to the slightest shift, so young this way, so alive, yet old with insight, perspective, surviving the disillusionments, still weaving beauty. You are able to express this. It has nothing to do with the number of years spent on this Earth. It is something else: walking inside translucent skin that allows wind to blow into bones, that drinks sunshine into those eyes that gaze within your mortal eyes, and sense beyond sight the trembling heart of existence.

  • tylerpuppy
    tylerpuppyalmost 4 years ago

    I love this write…your words took my imagination back in time, with a twist, then a turn, and now I sit pondering the read. YOu’ve got a great talent.
    peace
    Andrea

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