“LADY, YOU HOLD NO MEANING IN THIS STORY.”

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“LADY, YOU HOLD NO MEANING IN THIS STORY.”

And, my, just last night your name came:
Name-surnamed on the news here –
Character in a movie there –
The film* repeated it in refrain,
I laughed, thought, Universe:
“Really?! 15 mentions, again and again?”

Last night and a few nights before that,
I had found myself peaceful and content.

And then it creeps up, in veins.

And, why, just a couple months ago
Bridge border of Quebec and Ontario –
Taking in a sunset, the rapids,
Saw upon a rock your name spray-painted, different appellation.
I laughed, thought, Universe:
“Really?! So bold, in my face, near home, can it be so?

That day and a few days before that,
I had found myself resolved, zero sentiment.

And then it creeps up, in vain.

I can see if I conjured up the coincidences
That I might be accused of madness.
But when I’ve pulled through and set precedents
To not let my brain, nor spirit, descend…

…And still the Universe brings me little signs?
That I now laugh off and say: “Whatever, fine…”
I can only hope I send it back a message quite clear:
It is settled and I am not seeking him here/there.

I once asked him of all the perceived synchronicities
Did he mean this song meant that or this for me?
He said: “I hold no meaning in coincidence,” maybe thought it mean,
But instead like I usually do with his words
I played with them on so many levels, of course:
Direct, it was rejection –he cares not a thing for me!
Deep, his direction/guidance: SEEK HIM NOT IN PERCEIVED MEANINGS, PLEASE.

And, say I had always wanted to be waiting if he were ready?
To rekindle a friendship –
To say we’re sorry –
To somehow find a real understanding,
Said the Universe:
“Lady, you hold no meaning in this story.”

Last week and not one sooner earlier than that,
I found myself planning a trip back to London.

Trip details? The coincidences are insane.

I will go to Bloomsbury in April to turn 44.
You will not greet me, popping on your poppy, at the Jesmond door.

How long ago was November 16 and 17, twenty thirteen?
It is just time passed, and manufactured believings.

Sylvie Hill 2017

*film: “Silver Streak”
Painting: Jack Vettriano

Jack Vettriano painting