Old Timers

By Carina Wessels
 

I wish the time would go by faster. 

I wish it would steel me from this disaster. 

I try to spark a conversation

with a mind devoid of contemplation. 

 

Nothing resides behind your eyes, 

besides suffering and pleading

-begging for an answer as to

why it’s never ending. 

 

You call out names like a dog 

barking at shadows.

You scream from silence

filled with lostness and harrows. 

 

I pity you

and I hate that I do.

There are millions of things 

that I’d rather put my mind to. 

 

I would watch paint dry 

instead of listening to you cry

an incoherent, haunting thing

that only keeps echoing

the fact that you are no longer

someone

and that your life has long become

undone. 

 

And so, the painting of you

that haunts my mind

is littered with age and insanity

and I wish that it would rewind 

to the days when you were 

strong and well-spoken

and fierce. 

 

How there was laughter in your throat

and your warmth 

would justly pierce 

the cold Amersfoort winters. 

Instead, your portrait just withers. 

 

As I sit next to you on the couch,

I ask if you remember me. 

You stumble over a prayer, 

long lost in the translation

of your memories, 

and I suddenly feel selfish. 

What would my question accomplish? 

 

I take your hand, now cold and dull, 

and bring my lips, warm and full, 

to the veins through which 

life has left its trace. 

I know that you’ve already

left this place.