Chagrin Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I remember very well,
When I saunter past the clear, white walls
Of the establishments – I cower inside my skin.
The sound of your laughter that reverberates
Across the lurid halls are frightening,
And I can feel my heart threading into somersaults,
I can feel the shabby walls narrowing into stifles.
All the people come and go, with blurry faces
That do not show what Summer lies in hope – only winter.
I have seen the Summers, the Autumns –
There are such vivid imageries, such beauty,
That are ephemeral – I am disgusted with the idea of
Bliss in couples, ebullience within one’s self,
Because I feel most alive in winter, and feel dead
Whenever the last snow dissipates upon the arid terrain.
I can remember very well,
How I hold it up against me,
Tears that trickle like tridents, hope that blares like
The sound of the automobiles that pass right by me
Whenever I try to cross the street, but never your premises
Because I do not want to see you, because to see you is to
Ache in my skin, to gnash my teeth, to fear that everything that’s left
Is second best, and that the moment people cajole me into
Oblivion would be the moment of restoration,
But still there is something that keeps my hands from fidgeting,
From meddling and trifling with love anew, hope restored
And senses regained – it is not you, but myself.
I remember calling you, whenever I am defeated
And swoon over by this urge inside me to look for you
In the night – I lose track of time, of months, of days.
Do you know how excruciating that is?
Force feeding at 11: 00 AM,
Coerced into participating because people expect you
To exist when you do not have the vim to do so –
I always fantasize, looking at the azure and think about
Your constellations, and how I tie them to each other
So that in the final hours of the night, I am tethered to you –
But none of this could happen, for you are as far
As the thin line that eviscerates the sea and the horizon.
I always see your ghost, lurking around the walls,
Stealing the lucidity in my dreams, and turning the tides
And transforming them into tempests that would ravage
All over my puny, defenseless body.
If this is drama, then I could care less with what other people say
Because they are not as salient as the harlequin at night.
They are as blunted as a rusting fell blade.
I have given hope in the seasons that you declare
You’d come back. I am left with the immense winter,
And only few, whittling memories are left of the erstwhile
Splendid summers and autumns. I am left with the winter,
And at night, the heavens are downcast upon vapid galvanized roofs
In the morning, I have winter, and in the evening I have rain –
Sometimes the Sun shines, but you cannot see it hoisted in the heavens.
They will never give you back to me.
Sometimes there are seas of water on the streets, but it didn’t rain.
They will never give you back to me.
Sometimes, there are delicately prying flowers, but it isn’t spring.
They will never give you back to me.
Sometimes, I feel the cold arctic cascading down me, and it isn’t winter.
They will never give you back to me.