CASCADES

 

Rainwashed Absence           1996

The Storm Outside

Rain slams the streets,

a relentless sheet gluing the pavement,

each drop a thud against the earth’s skin,

smearing my view into a watery blur.

I peer through the torrent,

sight swallowed by a gray veil—

streetlights pulse weakly,

their halos drowning in the deluge.

Water snakes into my shoes,

a chill seeping up my legs,

and I shuffle on,

half-blind,

the world reduced to

the roar of falling sheets

and the sting of cold on my face.

A Shelter Not Mine

Someone else’s arms hold you tonight,

their embrace a bulwark

against the storm’s bite.

Do you feel safe now,

curled into their heat,

their pulse a steady drum

to mute the rain’s howl?

I picture it—

their fingers tracing your shoulders,

their breath a soft wall

where mine once stood.

It cuts,

this image of you

nestled in a refuge

I couldn’t shape,

a quiet wound

blooming beneath my ribs.

The Bed Left Behind

This bed stretches out before me,

a silent, barren plain—

sheets smooth as a iced-over pond,

pillows slumped like forgotten mounds.

It’s too hushed,

a stillness that echoes

the nights we filled it—

your voice bouncing off the walls,

your form carving

a familiar dip in the springs.

Now it’s a vacant husk,

muttering your absence

in every flat crease,

every untouched edge,

a space too vast

to hold just me.

Standing Still

I stall at the doorway,

feet grazing the frigid floor,

but I can’t trick myself

into crossing that line—

not without you.

The air hangs wrong,

too sparse to inhale,

too laden with what’s lost.

I’d rather stay here,

drenched and trembling,

than slip into that void

where the quiet

would coil tighter

than the rain’s grip.

Your shadow clings

to the blanket’s weave,

and I’m not brave enough

to face its pull alone.

Echoes of Want

The rain pounds on,

a ceaseless rhythm against the glass,

and I’m left sketching

the shape of your gone.

Could I summon you back,

rewind the clock

to when this bed

was ours,

when the streets

weren’t a war zone

and your safety

was my own?

For now, I hover,

trapped between

the flood outside

and this barren hush—

a drifter

refusing rest,

clinging to the ache

of a you

that’s slipped