Wicker Chair

It’s been so long since I’ve written to you.
My hands have been much too frozen.
Cold and clammy, they can’t hold
My pencil to the blank white paper.

And now I finally have the time
To warm my hands over the raging fire
In my brick fireplace.
I’m being careful
So as not to burn myself
In the hot ashes.

As I sit in the wicker rocking chair,
I hear your laugh and see your face in the flames.
The logs crumble as I remember your tears.
And the sparks pop as I reminisce about you.

A lover’s story played out
In the most stereotypical way.
The metaphors and symbols
Are so obvious that it’s almost pointless to listen.
But the story is undeniably universal.

The room is warmly lit, casting shadows
As the darkness slowly encroaches.
And all I’m left with are fleeting memories,
Coming and going with the crackle of the fire.

Silence is deadly and makes things worse.
Pushed play on the CD player to try to forget.
Yet, everything reminds me of you.
I can only fall into my wicker chair and weep
Like a little child at his first day of school.

As the fire dims and dies,
I slowly slip into a deep sleep.
And there you are again.
You are my waking thoughts
And unconscious desires.