Footprints by dixon


I was going on a trip this weekend
I needed to pull out the suitcase.
My body shuddered as I touched the handle
Same one you lugged to the station.

I pretended I’d find a note
Tucked away in one of the pockets
Thought maybe you left me a message
After the morning that we made ‘something’ (love?).

There was no message only memory
Of when I last lugged the suitcase
Across London, and your country
To Paris to visit my friends.

My journey was rather epic
I got so much love, I forgot!
I left those good things far behind
When I met with your explosion.

At Russell Square Station you kissed me
On the lips, I think it was twice
I got into travel mode quickly with my suitcase
Hunkered down and did not cry.

I was stunned in the execution
Zombified by a morning after
Lagged behind in your footprints
Free, taken and in wonder.

The only clue I had of this
Was a dream where I was lost in London
The only cue we gave all this
Were scenes I had written in poems.

Do you walk that city and think of me
Do you sometimes walk my footsteps?
Do you take your beer in Bloomsbury?
Do you chuckle at things I said?

I shall never return to London again
For fear of re-tracing your foot prints
And walk your walk of disregard
Your indifferent heart, zero sentiments.

But in my role as defeated and Victim
I convince myself of this
You cared for me a little bit
To take me to the station, yes?

And in my role as innocent, and naïve
I found it cavalier and romantic
When you helped me shut my suitcase up
With your big man hands, intact.

You said: “You’ll need a man around like this
If you’re going to have my child”
And the mockery was confusing
I felt encouraged as well as chided.

His twisted sense or sensibility
Left me exhausted, resilience ragged.
But with my pure heart, I surrendered
And it’s he who carries the baggage.

You’ll never know cuz his head’s held high
His wit reveals no shame
But I pretend that something weighs in him a bit
When someone calls my name.

I pretend he sinks a bit in his shoes
Feeling heaviness like foreboding
Of some odd connection between his every step
And my spirit abandoned, eroding.

Is this how we were to connect?!
Is this why you carried my luggage?
The push and the pull, the typical flow
For which I had a hunch?

The off and on again of the tides that flow
in and sweep off sand from footprints
Dually work to recede and expose patterns
Of the depth you imprint, instep.

And if you’re searching for his signs
Take yourself to South Bank, London, at night.
You may spot a dark figure,
walking at shore, near the water
his footprints among the rubbish
Collecting souvenirs for a girl in Canada
that he’ll never send but keep in his pocket

until he spots the next bin, trashes them
just like he may do with women,
and if not, reckon I was the exception.

And I should have seen it coming.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

Art: dixon / “Foot Prints” / 80x60cm / spray paint and acrylic on canvas / 2010