A Bad Movie

A poem about a film about life.

It’s four in the morning and I’m out here, cold. For such pain, I’m too young. For such drama, I’m too old. Roaming these walkways and navigating the night. When did life become synonymous with my paralysing fright? You don’t see it in horror movies, it’s not a typical fear. To be impossibly afraid to let the one you love, near. And yet here I stand — and now I sit — and now I fall. Scared to see you go, knowing you were barely here at all.

Fast forward to the future, like a movie, part two. And suddenly I feel nothing, nothing induced by you. The suffering has subsided — along with it, all the doubt. Now I’ve arrived at a place where the sun can finally come out. Maybe I’ll see you in passing. A quick glance, hell, I’ll flash you a smile. And sure I know it’s inevitable that I’ll think of you once in a while. A sense of nostalgia, maybe, who knows? Perhaps fondly or with biting regret. Whatever the case I know for a fact I’ll no longer be in your debt.

Because once I owed you my gratitude. And then I owed you my heart. But rewinding through our movie scenes, I realise you were a criminal from the start. It was stolen, you see, or maybe you don’t — I clearly did not. Stockholm Syndrome struck me brutal and hard and I was paralysed on the spot. Yet, now I’ve gained some freedom, stitched with distance and much time. What you took from me was never yours and you were never mine.

So today is now the future and here I stand — still standing — stood tall. This closure is soft and tender, a needed cushion to break my fall. And finally I can tell you this with no fear or misery tied in. I’m ready to let you go now.

It’s time for a new movie to begin.