‘The true paradises are the paradises we have lost” -Marcel Proust

We both liked Proust.
Your Proust was my
Proust. We both
thrilled to his words.
Perhaps, that is
where we should
start with Proust.

I want to believe
our hour has not
passed. That
your days could
be part of mine
once again,
even though our
clock stopped
ticking ages ago.
I long to bag up
our past hurts like
leaves, to burn
them, and not
choke on the
sour fumes.

I know our worlds
broke off in a
windstorm of
anger,
accusations,
and the
harshest of
words.

We’ve both been in
different woods for
years now. How
long must the
firs remain a bitter
green? The hours
and days too
numerous to
measure.

I thought I had
healed,
but lately when I
hear
the birds singing
it is a stricken sound,
one of regret
and nostalgia. I know
I’m better off not
attempting to cross
the ridge to your
forest.
I know I’m
mostly likely to be
met with cedar
falling on my head,
The sound of your
chainsaw sputtering
on the breeze. Dead
leaves and debris
everywhere.

I know the valley
between
us is deep. Yet, I
foolishly hope that
the
shadows could give
over to light.
A second chance,
where
the flowers turn
vibrant
in the spring. And
the pine
trees look toward the
horizon.
That we could take
the
fallen wood and
rebuild
the room of our
friendship,

Sit together and read
from Proust, thrill
to his words once
more. I know
it’s just a dream,
The light has sunk.
It died
where it ended,
with
the blood of the lamb,
a cross on the
back to bare.
Miscommunication,
Mixed signals and
metaphors.
There’s nothing left
to build upon,
just a sculptured
martyr
and the ghost of
Swann.

Your Proust is
my Proust, no more.

-Tosha Michelle