The Final Hour

So here we are, as promised.
It hasn't been that long.

No one around. No birds, 
no trees. How many years has it been?

Perhaps you have died earlier, 
long before I am granted this.

But you only owe me; whereas
I am grateful, which brings us to

this sudden draught.  Something
always escapes. The walls coddling

our silences like eggs. Outside it
every tendril of something spoken

stings. How now, the 
real pain sinks in.

All these years I've practised. 
To release you to the wind.

And to say no, 
I will live on.

But not for this.
Your gnarled hand

in mine, old as oak, 
as cold as tomorrow.

Laksmi Pamuntjak

I've been wanting to share this poem in my blog. So far, this has been my favorite poem by Laksmi Pamuntjak in her poems book titled The Anagram. I haven't finished it to be honest.  So I'll let you know if I have a new favorite.

This poem feels so cold to me. The one thing I get from this poem is separation, the goodbye that is necessary to make us feel a little better in the separation, even though it's only for a moment. Because inside, you know that tomorrow is never going to be as warm as the days when that someone is still around.


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