(no subject)
I'm not really here (don't have my repaired lap top back yet and don't have time to read LJ from work) but... The title of this blog post kept sounding like a poem to me, so finally I wrote it:
We will measure our loss
We will measure our loss in laughs unsnorted,
In nights of sleep unmissed for talking,
In drawers uncrammed that don't half-jam
On notes with ragged spiral sides,
Of private jokes, forgotten names
we used to match with ours.
We will measure our loss in songs
That remind us of nothing, walks in the park
That are only plodding paths and not montages,
Phone conversations that never started in the middle
And ended where they began.
We will measure our loss in stories untold,
Pillows uncrushed by splay-spined books half-finished
Eyelids unsore from staying up too late
Days we never sat on the floor
Next to the plug in an airport waiting room
Of empty chairs because we couldn't wait
To find out how it ends.
We do not measure our loss in pain.
Pain is a thing we have with us,
Heavy and awkward as a parcel
Whose string digs into our fingers.
We measure our loss in joys never enjoyed.
It is a tricky business.
There is no acceptable standard,
No golden unit stored
Under climate controlled conditions in a room in Paris
The ideal size and shape of missing things.
We are forced to approximate.
I miss you fifteen foot-pounds, three fortnights
And a centimeter.
But don't worry, it is getting smaller.
Or, perhaps, without you, so am I.
We will measure our loss
We will measure our loss in laughs unsnorted,
In nights of sleep unmissed for talking,
In drawers uncrammed that don't half-jam
On notes with ragged spiral sides,
Of private jokes, forgotten names
we used to match with ours.
We will measure our loss in songs
That remind us of nothing, walks in the park
That are only plodding paths and not montages,
Phone conversations that never started in the middle
And ended where they began.
We will measure our loss in stories untold,
Pillows uncrushed by splay-spined books half-finished
Eyelids unsore from staying up too late
Days we never sat on the floor
Next to the plug in an airport waiting room
Of empty chairs because we couldn't wait
To find out how it ends.
We do not measure our loss in pain.
Pain is a thing we have with us,
Heavy and awkward as a parcel
Whose string digs into our fingers.
We measure our loss in joys never enjoyed.
It is a tricky business.
There is no acceptable standard,
No golden unit stored
Under climate controlled conditions in a room in Paris
The ideal size and shape of missing things.
We are forced to approximate.
I miss you fifteen foot-pounds, three fortnights
And a centimeter.
But don't worry, it is getting smaller.
Or, perhaps, without you, so am I.