You left the room
with a clumsy flourish,
the door slammed quickly—
reverberating force
like a vacuum cleaner
shaking the dust, until
every corner rattled, left clean,
untraceable—
the map you had in your hand
a plan
long before anyone knocked.
You ran.
But you forgot about me.
You fled the scene
like a small boy whose shadows
stalked him
though he could not hear
the others say,
"That's simply the moonlight
trailing behind as it breaks
upon your face."
Merely a shadow.
I was the one whose voice you heard
I was still there—
I ran to the door
watched you flee,
from the entrance
you turned into an
exit.
But you forgot about me.
You closed the door with a lie.
Later
I closed the door with the truth—
One isn't better than the other.
Yes it is.
You had a victim's mask in your pocket
all along—
pieces of your defense
glued together
at my expense
wrought in a place of false pretense
cutting the edges of your hands
shaking at the moment of
planned dispense—
the past is a map.
Now I see
what before I missed.
(There is no before . . .
Sure there is.)
You were the one who always
showed up
until showing came with a price
which is not showing to give
but to take what you could
while fingering the razor
you'd use to excise,
lingering as long
as I was the sacrifice—
your comfort the key
my love the prize
your time a carrot
my loyalty a vice.
But you misread me.
I was telling the truth all along—
on the notes of every song
in the lines of the poems
and walks in the sand
in the gaze of my eyes
the touch of your hand
the finding and seeing
hearing, agreeing,
unfolding, repeating,
the four loves
and being—
freeing.
But you didn't see me.
I was there.
I remember it all.
I know the true parts
and the ones you call false—
what you call a dirge
was clearly a waltz
one-two-three, one-two-three,
I wasn't weak—
that’s never been me—
life has taught me resilience,
presence,
when to be quiet and
when to speak.
But now you can’t hear me.
I said the truth
with a slam—
for every action there is reaction—
that's what I teach.
You were "the other,"
my other,
I paid attention in full—
you had it all—
then, it was a gift to you
now, a gift to me
because as I look back I can see
we—you and me—
found our way to
living truthfully.
These scenes lay unrevised,
unchanged by your alterations—
the story is the same
no slight of hand
will defy the playwrights’ vision
like a Choose Your Own Adventure can—
the plot is still thick
(you know it's so)
we wrote the pages
created the spaces where each scene would go.
But you upstaged yourself and I left it all on the boards.
The places we graced
now empty stages
but stages withstand
construction and striking,
building up and tearing down
don't change reality
or the things we knew
the verbs, the nouns—
as the ghost light rolls on
what changes is
me
and yes,
even you—
and so, we.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Jill Szoo Wilson 