September Blossom

A poem about living through the cliché and tensions of a mid-life crisis.

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Public Domain

1995,
The last time I dumped someone,
Or was I dumped?
I can hardly recall now.
When passions ran high,
Consequences were transient,
Like biro graffiti hearts on skin,
These days passions run deep,
And consequences are tattoo indelible.

I feel hurt,
A receding slight,
That should have healed,
But it nags me,
Like a paper cut,
I seek comfort and understanding,
From anywhere:
Shakespeare, pop music, Hollywood and Google,
It’s all there,
Expressed more elegantly than I can write,
There’s nothing new I can say,
I’m a middle-aged cliché.

I can’t find a unique thought or idea
To express my frustration,
Only this poem’s title is new,
Itself inspired by an immature moment:
A non-smoker’s cigarette with a pretty girl,
Strangely,
The lack of originality gives hope,
Other people get old,
And happy again,
Like that ancient couple holding hands,
As they promenade by the beach.

I want to ask:
In middle age, were they frustrated and lonely?
No time to hold hands,
Drifting apart in parallel lives,
When did they stretch out?
Desperately grasping their lover’s hand,
Like the heroine and the hero at the cliff’s edge,
Saving themselves with their shared strength.

Soon,
I still believe,
You’ll grasp my hand,
Or I’ll grasp yours,
We will hold tight again,
And, in 2045, we’ll hardly recall,
Why we ever let go.

James is a pseudonym for a local writer who, after a long hiatus, is exploring poetry again.

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