SOLITARY SOUL (Little Death pt. 1)

Solitary Soul (Little Death pt. 1)

“Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of distress,” said Milan Kundera in Unbearable Lightness of Being.

There was chance and fortuity; today two signs: an actor with your shared name
in a program watched to make me laugh, and the word “roma” in a rapsong refrain.

If love fell upon ladies at the train station and in the ocean,
What fell upon me at Russell Square tube Station and South Bank shore of London?

Solitary Soul

If I met you through a man, who looked like a man, who I left a Good Man for
Does this mean I’ll find my peace in returning to his value, and suddenly be reborn?

Das schwerste Gewicht, yes, I’ve returned to Kundera, the book the Good Man’s dad recommended in ’94.
And I’ve been reading of Tomas, a man like you, so a few chapters in, I’m indebted, of course.

The Good Man’s last name appeared written on two trucks on the tarmac
As I sat in the airplane, with you in my skin, questioning my dumb luck.

Grandma Kazakov had dad at 42; this year I’m 39
If it’s in the genes to bring babies late in the game, perhaps the time was mine?

If in death, a life is saved by immortalizing a love lost, unrequited or not made
Then my preventing the chance for a you + me (it could have happened) should frankly, make my day.

The Good Man’s last name appeared on two trucks on the tarmac
As I sat in the airplane questioning my dumb luck.

Did you know I was to dedicate my first book to the Good Man first?
But your name is there, what does this mean: Are you my eternal return?

If I could have been killed in the rickshaw, and you saved me that night
Is the metaphor here that we keep driving through the city lights?

My mother always dreamed me getting hit by a car, not paying attention
You had told me already to stick on the mains, steer clear of the side street distractions.

But I think you know, as a solitary soul,
it’s so quiet here I forget how to listen.

To never hear your voice again and the way you say “spring chickensss…”
That is my end.

Little death.

© Sylvie Hill 2013