Forgotten Poem by Oliver Roberts

Maybe tomorrow
I will touch you
just there.
Maybe tomorrow
we will stand
on the platform
of a train station
in autumn
and say goodbye.
Maybe tomorrow
you will take
my hand
and lead me up
to the top
of a green hill
and show me
and tell me
what you see
when you are alone.

It's winter again
and the streets
are flowing
with melancholy,
brown hats
begrudgingly worn
as if they
were the reason
for the long
dark
days;
women pass by
in long boots
and skirts,
a way of dressing
that says
they are looking
for what they lost
and
that they know
they'll never
get it back.
Most days,
I look for the sun
as it's just about to set,
because I find
something
in its forgotten
prayers of fire
that reminds me
of you
and all the winters
that have passed
since.
How could I forget
that biting night
when
I showed you
the saddest moon
I could come up with,
or the warmth
of your hands
at that moment.

I wait for you
at a window
that looks out
over the ocean.
The waves,
the
waves,
the waves, the
waves,
spill on the shore
a breath of memory,
the life
of the shadows
of your face
over and over.
I walk in
up to my knees,
naked
and cold
and just stand there,
watching
the seagulls
and the ships,
the seagulls
and the ships.

Wherever you are now,
I am certain you
will not be able
to imagine
the cold
on this beach
today.
The wind, my love,
is like
a murdered choir.
All the parts of me
that you touched
and filled
with deserted stars
have left
to find warmth
elsewhere.
There is a skeleton here
that I never showed you.

Nobody heard
my heart
like you did;
beating closely
on your face,
and warming
your cavalier breasts
through the night.
There was a look
you'd give
from your sleep,
like a drowning poppie
or an empty park
at twilight,
that now
I hardly remember.
Our conversations,
our gestures,
appear
in my soul
as piles of wet leaves,
sweeping heavily
up inside the wind
like dying birds.

Maybe tomorrow
we'll take photographs
of the saddest streets
and plan to walk them
when we're older.
Maybe tomorrow
we'll kiss
until Thursday.
Maybe tomorrow
you'll leave a note
in my jacket pocket.
and when I read it
the words
will stab my breath.
Maybe tomorrow
I'll ask you
where you've gone.