The Long Weeks: A Poetic Exploration of Love and Loss

The Unfinished Sentence

Monday

I woke up to the smell of stale coffee

in the break room, a bitter reminder

of last night's stumbles. The fluorescent

lights hummed above, casting an unforgiving

luster on the worn linoleum floor.

I thought of her, of course. Always

do on Mondays. The way her dark hair

fell in loose waves down her back,

the curve of her neck as she laughed.

Tuesday

Rain drummed against the pavement

outside my office window, a relentless

beat that matched the thrum of my heart.

I stared at the clock, willing the hands

to move faster, to bring me closer

to the moment I could leave, could try

to find her. The smell of wet earth

rose from the streets, rich and loamy.

Wednesday

The sun beat down on my skin

as I walked out of the office building,

a warm weight that pressed me down.

I felt her absence like a gap

in my chest, a hollowed-out space

that reiterated with every step.

The sound of children's laughter

carried on the breeze, a cruel reminder.

Thursday

I drove out to the old warehouse district,

the crumbling buildings an onlooker

to neglected dreams. I thought I saw

her standing on the corner, her profile

etched against the fading light.

My heart stuttered, skipped a beat.

But it was just a stranger, a fleeting

glimpse of what could never be.

Friday

The club was loud, the music a pulsing

throb that tremor through my bones.

I lost myself in the crowd, in the sweat

and the noise and the fleeting liaisons.

I saw her across the room, her eyes

locking onto mine for a moment,

a flash of recognition before she turned

away, lost in the sea of faces.

Saturday

I pushed through the crowd, my heart

racing with nerves. I reached

her side, my hand sweeping against hers

as I leaned in close. "You look..." I started,

but she just smiled, her eyes glinting

in the dim light. For seconds, I thought

I had her, that she was mine. But then

she turned, her attention drawn to someone

else, and I was left with nothing but

the echo of my own heartbeat.

Sunday

The park was empty, the benches

standing like sentinels, guarding

riddles I'd never unwrap. I sat

down, feeling the cool wood beneath me,

and closed my eyes, letting the inertia

wash over me. The serenity was clear,

a load that coerced upon me.

I thought of her, of course. Always

do on Sundays. The way her dark hair

fell in loose waves down her back,

the curve of her neck as she laughed.

© 2024 Kingsley Gomes. All rights reserved.